Ascent
by Forever Jake
Summary: As Archimonde begins his final ascent towards Mount Hyjal and the World Tree, others yet have hands to play behind the scenes...
1. Foreign Territory

Arthas pulled the parka close around him. Undeath had stolen fear of the cold from him, and there was little the chill winds could do to him now. His human body, however, still shivered out of instinct. The wind, like the very breath of winter, whipped ever at his hair and skin, making him feel as cold on the outside as his frosty black heart within had already become.

He stood atop a flat, impossibly long slab of ice, summoned into being for passage across the great northern sea. The voyage was a short one, but the water was deep nonetheless, and undead could not swim. So Ner'zhul, the Lich King, had conjured them a raft.

Arthas looked around him at the assembled skeleton warriors, necromancers, crypt fiends and other miscellaneous undead that shared the huge icy barge with him. All accounted, they had to number well into the tens of thousands, perhaps even a hundred thousand. Arthas did not know for sure, and it did not matter. Nor did the numbers of their enemies matter, far away beneath the World Tree's branches. Their task, all their tasks, were small ones, simple; yet of great importance. It was not their numbers that would matter in the feat ahead, but their character, and the depth of their cunning.

Bracing himself for hardships known and unknown, clear and hidden, Arthas clenched his teeth and again pulled the parka close around him.

* * *

  


The nether fires raged around Kil'jaeden the Deceiver as he sat in his darkest sanctum, far from the boundaries of reality. Lit by the flickering, never-expiring flames, the room was the color of pooled blood. Time and space held no jurisdiction here, where all dimensions converged on the utter chaos that was the Twisting Nether. Yet, even here, the pulse of the multiverse continued, and even the great Kil'jaeden felt its rhythm. There was a world, called Azeroth. There, the currents of power had begun to shift, end even great demons like the Deceiver had to float with the tides.

From a massive throne made of bones, some demonic and some mortal, Kil'jaeden sat and looked down at a trio of tiny, impish demons at his feet. Each of the imps held with surprising ease what appeared to be a great, glassy mirror; the mirrors, however, showed no reflection, only the endless, warped blackness of the Twisting Nether.

Kil'jaeden waved his arm lazily and murmured a string of syllables. The mirrors roared to life. The first captured the image of a great, red Pit Lord with eyes of fury. The other two each showed dreadlords, one with blue skin and one with yellow.

Kil'jaeden turned first to the image of the Pit Lord, and spoke.

"Azgalor," the great Eredar rasped, he voice that of pure torment, "I see that you ready for battle. What conflict draws you to join it?" The Pit Lord blinked, as if Kil'jaeden had appeared out of thin air – which, as a matter of fact, he very well may have.

After its surprise had passed, it said quickly, "Why, my Lord, it is Archimonde's war. His forces – our forces – are nearing Mount Hyjal. The time for the taking of this world at long last draws near."

"I did not instruct you to join my brother at Hyjal," Kil'jaeden said.

"Shall I not?" Azgalor asked. "Your brother does not need my aid. If it is your wish, I shall take my leave of him – though I must say that I had hoped to drink the blood of many mortal foes this day. I've not tasted battle for centuries – but if you wish me to wait longer still, I shall."

"You may drink of the battle, Azgalor, my child. Drink until you are quenched. But know this," Kil'jaeden said. "Your task is not that of my brother's. He believes that the World Tree will fall this day, and Azeroth with it. I know better, my child."

Azgalor looked shocked. "Then the hour of victory is not at hand?"

Kil'jaeden smiled – a horrid, wicked smile. "Peace, Azgalor. Victory is indeed at hand – a great victory. But the final battle will remain still to be fought. Archimonde's war is dire, and he will sacrifice all to win it; in the end, it will consume him. He will destroy the World Tree today, and this world will buckle, of that I have no doubt. Yet if we die to plant the orchard, no one will live to harvest the fruit. Your task, Azgalor, is to see that when my brother's gambit is played, the Legion survives to reap the rewards of his labors."

Azgalor nodded and his image vanished. The imp carrying his mirror scurried away with it. Kil'jaeden turned now to the other two mirrors.

"Mephistroth, Anetheron," he called, and the images blinked as they saw him. The dreadlords made awkward bows and looked back at him.

"My lord," said Mephistroth, the blue one.

"Master?" said the yellow Anetheron. He looked confused, even frightened. "Where is Tichondrius?"

"Your brother Tichondrius is dead. He was slain by the elf sorcerer, Illidan."

"Master," Mephistroth roared, "does this 'Illidan' yet live?"

"Yes, my child, the murderer lives. You must find him. He has tasted demon blood, and even now he thirsts for more. You will use this thirst to draw him to you, but be warned – it will also make him powerful."

"We do not fear him," Anetheron spat. "He will die at our hands!"

"The foul elf will perish!" swore Mephistroth.

"Good," Kil'jaeden said. "Now go." The mirrors went dark.

* * *

  


The ice-barge struck ground, and Arthas stepped down onto the soft, brown earth. Even the dirt was a reminder that he was no longer in his own territory; the endless winter of Northrend held little authority here, where it was perpetually summertime. Even the chill wind that had tossed his hair and bitten at his skin was fading, replaced by warmer breezes from the south. He relaxed his grip on his parka and drew the runesword, Frostmourne, from its scabbard; its familiar dark glow seemed absent as the light of Kalimdor's summer sun reflected off its steel blade.

No, this was definitely not Northrend. This was foreign territory. He would have to keep his wits about him.


	2. Let the Game Begin

Azgalor grunted to himself as the image of Kil'jaeden vanished from the air before him. He hefted his great black breastplate over his head and secured its chain around his huge neck. He grunted again as he lowered the plate over his chest. The armor was crafted of the same adamantium metal that was supposed to have covered the scales of the legendary black dragon Deathwing. Azgalor had never seen the great dragon himself, so he didn't know if such stories were true. He knew the strength of the adamantium, however, and he knew it would protect him from any would-be attacker.

"Not that I plan to let anyone close enough to attack," he murmured, as he bent and picked up his impossibly huge twin-headed war spear. The weapon was crafted from ancient material far older than the mortal adamantium, material stolen from the ruins of some pillaged world or another, its name long forgotten. While the adamantium would fend off any attack, the spear's sharpened blades would carve through any defense. A lich had once asked the Pit Lord what would then happen if the irresistible force of the spear struck the immovable object of the adamantium, but such questions as those hurt Azgalor's head, and he had deigned not to answer.

Azgalor's blood temple had been prepared here, in the heart of Ashenvale, a fortnight earlier, for two purposes. With Mannoroth dead, it had fallen on Azgalor's shoulder's to prepare the way for Archimonde's demon horde. The blood temple had served as a place where Azgalor and his retainers could gather to channel the energies necessary to unleash the Legion upon the world. That was the first reason the structure had been built.

The second was to shock and frighten the Legion's mortal enemies. Even now, fear and sadness were spreading through the ranks of the remaining Night Elf population as they witnessed the black, acrid smoke of the Pit Lord's noxious rituals rising ominously above the treetops of their beloved forest. The doorways of the temple were always open and unobstructed so as to more efficiently channel the smoke and odor of the rituals, and through one of these doorways now hobbled the withered form of a necromancer.

"Great One," the dark wizard said fearfully, "Lord Archimonde demands your presence. We are preparing to begin the attack." Azgalor grunted in annoyance. He doubted the human had spoken directly with the great demon lord; more likely, Archimonde had spoken to another Eredar warlock, who had spoken to a Doom Guard, who had spoken to a dreadlord, who had spoken to a death knight, who had spoken to a lich, who had spoken to the chief necromancer, who had spoken to a retainer, who had spoken to this poor fool. In exasperation at the bumbling messenger who dared to use the word _demands_ to one such as he, Azgalor muttered a short curse. The mortal wizard burst into flames.

There was a muffled cry from the rear of the temple. Azgalor glanced over at the most recent victim of the rituals, a night elf archer who had been discovered scouting near an undead encampment south of the temple. She had been captured, stripped, and secured to a great spiked wheel here in the temple, where Azgalor had watched her blood slowly drain into a basin at floor level. After three days, kept alive only be the demon's magic, her blood was now nearly spent. She moaned softly.

Azgalor grinned and looked back at the burning wizard. He spoke a word and the flames evaporated, restoring the human mage to health. The mortal blinked and smiled weakly, as if about to thank the Pit Lord for mercy.

"Naïve fool," Azgalor said. He muttered another phrase. The human's body went rigid, and he floated up into the air, past the demon and over to the wheel where the elf woman was secured. Azgalor waved his fat arm in the wheel's direction and the spikes on it shot through the wizard's body. Dark blood, polluted by magic, flowed quickly down into the basin where the elf's blood had been collected, mixing with the lighter fluid. Both mortals screamed then, as the corruption of the mage devoured the woman and her purity infected him. The flames suddenly returned, engulfing both bodies, and the two ceased screaming, vanishing in a burst of thick black smoke.

Azgalor looked down into the swirling, blood-filled basin. The two colors of blood had mixed thoroughly, leaving a dim crimson mixture that churned and boiled. Lifting the basin above his head, Azgalor tilted it ninety degrees, so that the blood flowed over his body, drenching him. As the unholy mixture covered his body, giving him an evil, reddish tint, the screams of these two newest victims sounded again in his ears. Their life force, their powers, flowed into his veins, into his mind, and his eyes flared as his system devoured the raw essence.

Their screams were joined by countless others whose blood had served similar purposes. Azgalor had murdered innumerable victims, innocent and corrupt, upon the wheel of the temple, and each had fed his bloodthirst. Each time before, their energies had gone towards opening some portal to the nether or summoning some demon or another to join Archimonde's force. Now, however, all the Legion's soldiers were already here, and there was no one else to summon. There was no portal to open and no spell to chant. The energy hung about him, waiting.

He swallowed, and concentrated on the energy. He would keep it for himself, he decided. He would use it to make himself more powerful for the coming battle. After all, the fate of this world, and of the Legion itself, hung in the balance this day.

In the distance, a war horn sounded, low and ominous. The battle was starting, and Archimonde _demanded_ his presence, after all. Grunting in ecstasy as his victims' raw energies cascaded into him, he gripped his war spear and turned to exit the temple. There was a whole world of victims waiting, and he had much killing to do.

* * *

  


Mephistroth and Anetheron found the Scourge easily enough; forty thousand corpses are rather hard to hide. The undead were encamped in a mountainous region north of Hyjal, probably amassed in preparation for Archimonde's ascent of the holy mountain. Archimonde, however, could get along fine on his own, and the dreadlords had a better use, they thought, for such an army – the hunt of Illidan Stormrage. The loathsome elf was still at large somewhere in northern Kalimdor, and if it was the last thing they accomplished in this life, Mephistroth and Anetheron would find him.

Arthas watched as the dreadlords landed in the center of the camp. Dreadlords were one of the few races of demons light enough to make use of their wings, and although they preferred not to be witnessed flying, for they thought it sign of weakness, it was undeniably less taxing on their energies than simply teleporting. Besides, these two had not known the Scourge's exact location, so teleportation had not even been an option.

Nevertheless, it made Arthas smile to see the demons doing something that embarrassed them.

_Master_, he said silently to the Lich King, _the guests you were expecting have arrived_.

_Good_, Ner'zhul responded immediately. _You know what to do._

_Indeed_, Arthas said to himself. _Let the game begin_.

He stepped forward to greet the demons. "My Lords," he said, "welcome. My master told me you would come." The yellow one – Anetheron, was it? – looked at him condescendingly.

"We are your masters, human, not the Lich King. We rule the Scourge now. If you wish to live much longer, you would do well to remember that."

"But of course," Arthas said. He grinned and did a little mock bow. "How may we serve you?"

This time the blue-skinned Mephistroth spoke. "We are seeking the elf creature Illidan, who slew Tichondrius. And you will help us find him." Arthas knew all about Tichondrius' death, for it was he who had set Illidan on the demon the last time he had been in Ashenvale. These dreadlords didn't know that, of course, and Arthas certainly wasn't about to tell them.

"Would not the elf be with the rest of his people, defending Mount Hyjal?" he inquired instead, feigning ignorance.

"No," Anetheron replied. "He is not with them, for whatever reason. In fact, we spotted him in this very forest as we were flying, but he quickly disappeared." More likely they didn't want to try and fight him alone, since Illidan had already killed one dreadlord with apparent ease. Arthas also noted that his 'guests' weren't aware that Illidan was an outcast – one more tidbit the death knight could use to his advantage.

"Now that you mention that, my Lords, I seem to recall my own scouts seeing a lone elf in the forest as well, though I thought nothing of it at the time." Arthas described Illidan flawlessly – not a difficult thing, since he had seen the elf in person – and the dreadlords gobbled his story right up.

"That is he," Mephistroth assented. "Where did you sight him? West, in the foothills? That was where we saw him."

"Oh, let's see know," Arthas said, tugging on the stubble that was growing on his chin. He was doing his best to appear incompetent, so the demons would underestimate him, and from their annoyed expressions, it appeared to be working. "As a matter of fact, if I recall correctly, that's exactly where he was." Arthas was lying flat-out now, adjusting his story to match what they had seen. It was fortunate that Illidan had indeed been spotted to the West, because that was farther away from Hyjal and Archimonde. Ner'zhul knew the Night Elves had set a trap for Archimonde at the World Tree, and the Lich King's plan was for the dreadlords – and the Scourge – to be too far away when Archimonde realized what he was walking into for him to call reinforcements.

"Prepare to march then, Death Knight. We are going after him."

Arthas feigned surprise. "Now, my Lords?"

"Yes. Illidan must be caught before he can escape us." This was cock and bull; Arthas knew that the demons just wanted their task accomplished before Kil'jaeden came looking for them.

"I shall inform my generals," Arthas said, and he turned away. He left the dreadlords to rally the Scourge for battle themselves; it was time he gathered his fellow death knights and told them what the Lich King had in mind for them.

He realized, briefly, that he would probably run into Illidan again at some point. He smiled.

This was going to be fun.


	3. Send the Boy

The twisted creature known as Illidan Stormrage sat beneath an ancient ash tree, his eyes closed in meditation. His demonic form, brought on by the energies of the Skull of Gul'dan, had subsided, and his shape was once again an elf, if a very tired and strained elf. The Skull's energies had empowered him briefly, but after the battle with Tichondrius, they were already nearly spent. He was weak and wounded, and the emptiness where the demonic powers had been, even briefly, made him starved for more.

He was blind to the physical world, but in his head Illidan saw things no mortal should ever see. His blood pumped the demon energies like poison ever more through his system, adapting his body to work with their power, and in return, he began to sense that power outside of him. His 'demon vision', as he thought of it, was hazy yet, but even now, from the little he had tasted, he could 'see' in his mind's eye the demons that arrived in ever larger numbers at the foot of Mount Hyjal. He could see the great Eredar Archimonde; he could sense the expansive Doom Guard, already assembled and awaiting the call to battle; he could see the infernals, felhounds and lesser demons arrayed across the continent.

And close by, so close by, he could see the dark soul of the Death Knight, Prince Arthas. Even now, that unholy creature brought the demons towards Illidan, closer and closer to the poor elf who had dared to taste of their power. They were coming to kill him, he knew, and he would not be able to hold them back on his own. He had barely been strong enough to slay Tichondrius at the height of his increased powers, and now, after that power had waned so far, he would have no chance against Arthas and his two pet dreadlords.

He could not even run. He could hide, but for how long? How long before they burned the forest down around him, and the game was up? He didn't know. He didn't know how long he could last without more of the power he had tasted, but he knew that if he didn't find it again, he would surely die of bloodthirst.

"Very well," he said firmly. "If it is my fate to die for my crimes, then I shall do so." He loathed what he had done - and yet, even as he verbally condemned himself, he silently hungered for more...

* * *

  


"My Lord!" Azgalor cried, "the Scourge has gone!"

"What?" the Eredar said calmly. They were at the foot of Mount Hyjal, where the Legion's forces were being marshaled.

"The undead, Master. They have deserted! I have just looked again; I can find no sign of the undead where you told them to gather."

"I see." The warlock closed his eyes.

 "My Lord," the Pit Lord continued, "it must be the Lich King's doing. He is not as bound to the Legion's will as we once thought."

"No," Archimonde said darkly. "He is not. But this is not so simple as that. I would venture it is my brother's doing." Azgalor gulped; did Archimonde know that Kil'jaeden planned for him to die this day? Did he know that the other Eredar had contacted Azgalor? If Archimonde knew Kil'jaeden had given him secret orders, it would be enough to condemn the Pit Lord to a most painful death.

"My Lord, what do we need the Scourge for, anyway?" he said, trying to change the subject. "We have enough undead forces here with us, plus the Legion itself, to take Hyjal three times over. Not to mention your own formidable powers."

"That is true enough," Archimonde agreed. Azgalor said nothing more, but looked away. 

"Ah," Archimonde said after a moment, "there they are."

"What?" Azgalor looked back. The Eredar's eyes were still shut. "What did you say, my Lord?"

"I have found them, Azgalor. They are to the northwest, in the foothills." The Pit Lord breathed a wheezing sigh of relief. He was off the hook, it seemed.

"Well, then there's no problem. Right, my Lord?"

"It's still strange," Archimonde said slowly. "They are rather far from the staging point, and they are still on the move – away, both from here and from where I told them to be." He opened his eyes.

"I would say they were deserting, master."

"Please, Azgalor, how do forty thousand corpses desert? They probably were seen by some scouting party, and so they engaged."

Azgalor shrugged. He was out of answers.

"I think you should go see what they're up to, Azgalor," Archimonde said, after a pause.

"Me, Lord? Won't you need me for battle? I gather we're beginning the attack soon."

"Just as you said, Azgalor, we have enough of a force here to take Hyjal three times over. I don't need the Scourge's help, and I can certainly get along with out you for a little while."

"But, my Lord—"

"No more arguments, Azgalor. I want them accounted for. Take some infernals, go and find out what the undead are doing, and don't make me tell you again. I hate repeating myself."

Azgalor sighed. "Of course, my Lord." He was disappointed. Trekking all over Kalimdor after the wayward Scourge could take all afternoon, and the battle would be over long before then. He would never quench his bloodthirst now.

Sometimes it seemed like the whole world was against him.

* * *

  


_Foothills_ was a rather misleading term for the terrain to the west of the mountains, as Mephistroth and Anetheron had discovered. It was technically true according to the area's elevations, for small hills did rise out of what would otherwise have been a flat floodplain, but the hills were hardly as traversable as traditional foothills. Like the rest of Ashenvale, forest covered everything, and here was more tangled a region even than most.

The natives had taken to calling it Felwood, after the extent of the Legion's corruption, but even when that corruption had been pushed out by Illidan's destruction of the Skull of Gul'dan, the name had stuck. Even now, without the influence of the demonic magics, the natural overgrowth strangled and entangled the area so completely that the dreadlords had almost instantly met a dead end. Illidan could not have chosen a better place to hide from the Scourge; the impassable trees made a natural constricting labyrinth which gave such a large army as theirs little chance to even move, let alone find him.

It was then, unremarkably, that Anetheron had an idea.

"Send the boy."

"What?" Mephistroth said.

"Send the boy," Anetheron repeated. They were halted at the edge of a wide brook – another wall of the forest maze. "Send the boy out after Illidan. He'll find the elf for us, and then we can let him weaken it before we fight it ourselves."

"Of course!" Mephistroth cried. "Of course, what a splendid idea!" He went to find Arthas.

The fallen prince was near the rear of the formation, in conversation with his fellow death knights, when Mephistroth found him. When the demon appeared, the humans quickly stopped talking, and an awkward silence fell upon the dreadlord. Mephistroth looked around sheepishly, and approached Arthas.

"Master?" Arthas said warmly.

"Silence, dog," the demon said. "I have a job for you."

"Anything for the Legion, of course."

"I am sending you out to find the elf."

"Just me?"

"Just you. When you find him, give a signal and we'll come to you."

"What sort of signal?"

"Well, I don't know. Haven't you any spells?"

"I can steal souls with my runesword, but I don't think you'd be able to see that from here."

"And that's it?" The demon looked at him incredulously. Arthas spread out his hands.

"I'm afraid we death knights are more fighters than mages, my Lord."

The demon looked around helplessly. It had certainly seemed like a good idea when Anetheron had suggested it. His eyes settled on a lich, floating casually next to a group of necromancers.

"You, lich!" Mephistroth called. The lich turned around. "Come here."

"Thisss one hearsss and obeysss, dreadlord," the lich said as it approached. "How can thisss one help the Legion?"

"What is your name, lich?" the dreadlord asked.

"Thisss one isss called Araj," the lich rasped icily. "What isss it you want?"

"Silence," Mephistroth mumbled. "Can you summon a flare?"

"Of courssse," Araj snickered. "Even the weakessst mage can do that." Mephistroth looked back at Arthas, who shrugged.

"Alright," the demon said. "You two, go and find Illidan. Give a flare when you do, and Anetheron and I will come to you."

"Of course, my Lord," Arthas said with a smile. Araj nodded. They both turned and exited the clearing, leaving Mephistroth with his clawed hand on his forehead. These mortals were giving him a headache.


	4. No Longer an Orc

Kokoro sat in meditation at the edge of a small plateau about two-thirds of the way up the mountain, his eyes closed, his long blade held perfectly still at a ninety-degree angle to the ground. The attack would soon begin. Before him, on the slopes below, sat arrayed the defenses of the pathetic human Alliance, and beyond them, like a shadow, sprawled the endless armies of the Legion. Above him, at the summit, sat the invisible Night Elf forces, waiting in ambush for the demons – and all around him were the orcs.

Kokoro didn't know why the self-styled 'Warchief' Thrall had thrown his chips in with the humans and elves, but it didn't matter. They'd all have to fight the demons eventually; there was no use running. Kokoro had been fighting his own demons for many years. So why not today? They would die together, poetically, and then they would have no more troubles.

Except that Kokoro didn't plan to die just yet. Had he still possessed some sense of self-direction, he would not have been here. He would have been out in the world, enjoying what was left of his sanity while he still could. He would be evading his fate, making the most of what time he was allotted. But Kokoro had lost his sense of self-direction long ago, surrendering himself to circumstance and greater powers.

Today, greater powers had a sense of humor. That he, Kokoro, who hated the humans, hated the elves, and hated his fellow orcs perhaps most of all, should die at their side, as one of them, was ironic.

Greater powers loved irony.

"Kokoro," said a voice like fire, a voice he had not hoped to hear ever again.

"Kil'jaeden?" he whispered.

"Open your eyes," the demon's voice commanded.

Kokoro did so, but it was not the humans and demons on the slopes below that he saw before him. Instead, the landscape had been replaced by one of fire and destruction. All around him, a burning lake of lava spit chunks of flame into the air. Above, a pale red sun, the color of pooled blood, shone dimly down, drenching all he surveyed in its pale crimson glow.

And directly in front of him, on a throne of crushed bones and mutilated corpses, sat Kil'jaeden the Deceiver.

"Kokoro," the great Eredar repeated.

"It is I," the blademaster replied.

"You look well," the demon taunted. "The redness in your skin has nearly faded. You look almost like one of them."

"I am one of them," Kokoro said.

"No, Kokoro, you were never one of them. Have you forgotten your pact? Have you forgotten the blood that flows through your veins, _Slayer_?"

"Do not call me that. Mannoroth is dead. The others have returned to the ways of the shamans, and I—"

"And you what? You are a fool, Kokoro, if you think your ties are so easily broken."

"Am I? The other chieftains' ties are severed, and so are mine. The blood of Mannoroth holds no more sway over us."

"You forget, Kokoro."

"What? What have I forgotten?"

"That you are different than they." There was a flash of lightning, and a sudden force knocked the bladesman to his knees. "You forget how you earned the name _Slayer_."

"DO NOT CALL ME THAT!"

"It is your name, Kokoro, no matter how you run from it. You have forgotten it, but now – now, you will remember."

The lightning flashed again, and once more the scenery changed. It was Draenor, but not Draenor as the orc remembered it, not as it had died, blackened and cracked. It was a Draenor of long ago, when grass covered the land and the sky was still blue. It was Draenor when it had been beautiful... untouched.

He was in a clearing, and the chieftains of all the clans were gathered in a semicircle about its edge. In the center of the clearing was a hulking stone altar, and behind it sat two of the largest demons Kokoro had even seen – Kil'jaeden and Mannoroth. The latter was waddling towards the altar, his huge hands clutching a great jade knife. He stopped when he reached the altar, and paused. Then, with a stifled cry of pain, he plunged the jade knife deep into his arm, letting his thick, dark blood drip into a large stone basin, which rested on the altar. As the droplets filled the basin, he raised his head and laughed.

"Come," he said, in a voice great and terrible. "Come, all of you who hunger for power."

One by one, the assembled orcs approached the altar, and, cupping their hands, brought the dark liquid to their mouths, then silently returned to their place at the circle. Slowly, almost unnoticeably, their skin began to change, to redden. All the while, the demons watched and grinned.

Then, when each of the chieftains had drunk from the basin, Kil'jaeden approached the altar.

"Give me the blade," he said, and Mannoroth did so. The Eredar looked at the blade for a moment, then slit his own arm. His own blood, fiery and red, began to pour out. "Where is the child?" he said. An old and wrinkled orc, his robes decorated with the symbols of the shamans, approached the altar then, and from a satchel on his back he produced a tiny creature – an infant orc. Slowly, gingerly, Kil'jaeden lifted the baby and placed its mouth on his wrist. It began to suck, the green of its impish face becoming a bright, fiery crimson...

The scene changed again in another flash of lightning. The grass evaporated, and the skies grew dark. A young orc, just coming of age, appeared, his skin as red as fire. He was running through a forest of sorts, a forest of great brown mushrooms. Slowly, a clearing came into view, and in the clearing, dozing, lay a fat orc wearing a crown adorned with skulls. Silently, the young orc unsheathed a long, curved blade, and raised it over the sleeper's head. He brought it down violently; the sleeper gave a sudden and brief gasp, then was silent.

A minute passed. Then two. The young orc did not move from his position. More time passed; a half hour, an hour... someone was approaching. The youth looked up. A pair of figures walked towards him across the clearing.

"Ah, Kokoro," one said. "Good work."

"It is done, Ner'zhul," the second said as they drew near. "The old chieftain is dead. Shadowmoon belongs to you now."

"Gul'dan?" the youth said. "Master, can he be trusted?"

"Relax, Kokoro," Ner'zhul said. "We have nothing to worry about from him. You have done well tonight."

"Yes, Master."

"Ner'zhul," Gul'dan said, "the last of the preparations have been made. Tomorrow I shall open the rift."

"Then let us retire to the Warlocks' spire. Murder and little sleep are no good for one's temperament, and we don't want you making any mistakes with the portal."

Gul'dan laughed. "Of course, Master."

The scene shifted drastically now. The ground everywhere was brown and drained, and the skies above were bright and red. Numerous portals, like empty eyes, stared down upon the ground, where chaos reigned as humans and orcs battled in desperation; desperation, because in mere moments, Kokoro knew, the whole world was going to die...

He saw a lone warrior with dim red skin dodging battling soldiers and dying men as he darted up the battlefield towards a huge portal, which had opened out of the ground itself.

"Ner'zhul!" the warrior yelled, and an old orc standing in front of the giant portal turned around to look at him. "Ner'zhul!" the red-skinned warrior yelled again, but the old wizard just laughed, and jumped through the portal. The warrior neared the rift and peered through it, as if trying to see where his master had gone. He hesitated, then leapt in after him...

Kokoro, watching, saw the young warrior – himself, he realized – emerge in a world of flames and terror: the Twisting Nether. Huge and imposing, Kiljaeden stood with Ner'zhul in his grip, chanting some incantation as the former shaman burst into flames. Then Kil'jaeden opened his hands, and Ner'zhul plummeted into the unending abyss.

Kil'jaeden turned now to the young Kokoro. "You are Ner'zhul's Slayer," he said.

The orc nodded.

"I have use for you yet," the demon said, lifting Kokoro up. The orc began to scream...

The scenery had returned to Kil'jaeden's throne in the present, and the orc was on his knees, sobbing. The lightning continued to play across the unnatural sky, and Kil'jaeden stood from where he had been seated.

"Oh, cheer up," he said. "I'm not going to kill you. I have use for you yet, as I said."

"I know," Kokoro muttered. That was why he was crying...

"I have a task for you. You believed that I destroyed Ner'zhul when I flung him into the Nether; this is only half-true. Though he is no longer an orc, Ner'zhul still lives."

Kokoro blinked through his sobs. "Ner'zhul still lives?" he echoed. Ner'zhul, the madman that had fed him demon's blood as an infant, who had made him the murderer of a thousand innocents, who had deserted him on the dying world of Draenor, yet lived?

"Yes. I sought to make him once more my servant, but he has betrayed me."

Despite his sobbing, Kokoro was forced to chuckle. Ner'zhul did have a habit of betraying people...

"Even now, he seeks to undermine the Legion's domination of a world. And I want you to kill him."

"Of course you do." Kokoro was sobbing again. "What makes you think I'll do it?"

"Because I told you to, whelp, and because you are still my Slayer, whether you like it or not. The blood in your veins commands you to serve me, even as your fellows break free." The demon paused, and waved his arm in a semicircle. There was a burst of light, and the orc's skin resumed the fiery red color it had missed for so many years. He glowed as brightly now as he had on the day he had first drunk Kil'jaeden's blood...

"There," the Eredar said. "I have rekindled your energies. Now, you look like my Slayer again. Now... GO." The lightning flashed. The flaming sea and the throne of bone vanished, replaced by the green and blue world of Mount Hyjal.

"DEMON!"

Kokoro looked up. A shaman, bedecked in bear and wolf skins, was pointing at him and repeating the accusation. Kokoro knew the shamanistic orcs would destroy him in an instant if he did not run, so he did just that. He jumped up – he had still been seated in his mediation pose – and leapt over the cliffside to a lower-level plateau. He hit the ground running, and did not look back.

He would seek out Ner'zhul, he already knew. He would do as the higher powers willed.

He suddenly remembered something Kil'jaeden had said. "Though he is no longer an orc..."

"I'm not really an orc anymore, either," Kokoro said, looking down at his red skin with disgust. Yes, he would seek out Ner'zhul, the being that had time after time destroyed his life. He would kill him, as the higher powers wished him to.

And then he would die.

* * *

  


Below, in the human camp, drums boomed and trumpets sounded. The battle was beginning.

The hands had been dealt; the board was set. It was time to let the game play out.


	5. I've Got a Use for You Yet

"My lords," said a necromancer, "we've sighted another army."

"What?" Mephistroth and Anetheron spun around. They had not noticed the mage approaching.

"I said, we've sighted another army."

"We heard you," Anetheron said exasperatedly. "Where would Illidan have gotten an army?"

"Maybe he is with the other elves after all," Mephistroth said. "Although I don't understand what they're doing away from Hyjal at a time like this."

"Saving Illidan's hide, no doubt. Where were they sighted, human?"

"East, behind us." As an afterthought, he added, "And they're demons, not elves."

"What are demons doing helping Illidan?" Anetheron asked.

"I don't think they're Illidan's," Mephistroth said. "Archimonde and Kil'jaeden are probably at odds again, and Archimonde must have figured out we're working for his brother."

"So what do we do?" Anetheron asked, eyeing the necromancer, who was obviously awaiting orders.

"We wait," Mephistroth replied. "Illidan is still out in the forest somewhere, and Arthas is going to find him for us. We don't have to worry about the Legion just yet; we had trouble enough getting through the damn forest, so I imagine they'll have the same problems."

* * *

  


Azgalor wiped the sweat from his forehead. They had been marching for at least a half an hour, and they had finally come to a stop. Ahead lay the foothills, the swamps, where Arthas and his dissenters lurked. Azgalor didn't know if Ner'zhul had ordered the death knight to abandon his post or if the boy had done so on his own, but killing him and his followers would certainly boost Azgalor's standing with Archimonde – or Kil'jaeden, whichever one was going to be left standing after Hyjal fell. Deep down, Azgalor really didn't care who ran the Legion, so long as that person left a place near the top for Azgalor. The Pit Lord wasn't smart enough to be in charge of everything, and he knew it – but he was smart enough to make himself a favorite of whoever was.

He did have one problem, however. His quarry lay somewhere within the tangled forest ahead, and Azgalor had gone a wee bit overboard when he had rallied his force. Archimonde had merely wanted him to round up the Scourge and bring them back, but Azgalor had something different in mind – he planned to slaughter them all. He had therefore summoned up a veritable army of demon-kind rather than the small troupe of infernals Archimonde had ordered. The Eredar would probably never notice the difference, for the Legion had literally millions of violent souls at its disposal. Azgalor would find the undead, run them through, and then claim they had resisted him. It was pure genius, he had thought then. Now he wasn't so sure.

When he had rallied his force, he hadn't counted on the constricting labyrinth of the forest. He couldn't hope to squeeze an army this huge through the narrow forest paths; how the Scourge had managed such a feat baffled him. Unless the undead decided to simply give themselves up, it looked like Azgalor had very little to show for his troubles.

"Thisss one thinksss you ssshould burn the foressst down," said a voice. Azgalor turned all the way around, which was no easy task for the elephantine Pit Lord.

"Who are you?" he said to the nearby lich who had obviously just spoken.

"Thisss one isss called Araj," the lich replied coolly.

"Araj, you say?" Azgalor didn't remember seeing the lich during the march, but then, he was traveling with fifty thousand troops, after all, and there wasn't much room in the Pit Lord's head for names and faces. "What was it you were saying, Araj?"

"Thisss one wasss jussst sssaying that you ssshould burn the foressst down," the lich answered.

"Now why would I do a thing like that?" Azgalor demanded.

"Becaussse you seemed to be having trouble sssqueesssing the Legion through the foressst," said the lich.

"And just what would you know about my troubles?" Azgalor narrowed his eyes in an effort to appear imposing, but it probably just made him look sick.

"Pleassse, Lord," the lich said in mock surrender, "thisss one wasss jussst offering hisss advissse."

"Well, don't do it again," Azgalor mumbled absently. His thickly padded demon brain had finally registered the lich's original comment, and it was sinking in. "Of course," he murmured, "then we wouldn't have any trouble at all..."

"Lich," he commanded loudly, stopping the retreating Araj in his tracks, "tell the troops to set the forest on fire. Then we won't have any trouble."

The lich let out an inaudible snicker. "Of courssse, massster..."

* * *

  


"Lords," the necromancer said.

"You again?" said Mephistroth.

"What is it now?" Anetheron asked with annoyance.

"I just thought you should know," said the necromancer, "that the Legion is burning the forest down."

"They're what?" Mephistroth was dumbfounded.

"Now why would they do a thing like that?" Anetheron wondered aloud.

"Well," said the necromancer, "you have to admit, it does make it easy for a large army like theirs – or ours – to navigate the area."

There was a pause as this sunk in.

"Now, then," Mephistroth said slowly, "why didn't we think of that?"

* * *

  


Illidan was wide awake. Noise filled the forest; there was a huge disturbance somewhere out of sight. Animals were fleeing in all directions. Balancing adeptly on a low-hanging tree limb, the elf leaned forward, searching with his mind for the source of the disturbance—

A gloved hand grabbed his leg and dragged him from the branch. He had no time to unsheathe his blades; blindly, he kicked out at his attacker. Surprised, the unknown assailant crashed backwards, away from the tree, landing on its back with a muffled 'oof!' Illidan landed on his toes and immediately bared his weapons, holding them towards the attacker in a defensive stance. In his mind's eye, he looked for the assailant's face—

"Arthas?" the elf said in surprise. "What are you doing back here?"

"Helping you leave," the death knight said, as Illidan lowered his blades and stepped closer. "Could you give me a hand up?"

Illidan paused. The human had helped him before in claiming the Skull of Gul'dan, had shown him the Skull in the first place, but that didn't mean he was to be trusted. The Prince had betrayed his whole kingdom, after all, for the vile powers of the Scourge, and that was not something to be done lightly. Then again, honor could still be shown to the honorless. No matter what path the death knight chose, Illidan could still be kind to him, or at least fair.

_And besides_, Illidan said to himself, _I can defend myself well enough if he tries anything dishonorable_. He extended his hand to the prince, and Arthas took it and pulled himself up.

"Ah, thank you," he said, dusting off his cloak and parka. "You know that Kil'jaeden is looking for you," he said quietly.

"Yes, I know," Illidan answered. "I rather thought you were helping him, since you seem to be traveling with two dreadlords."

"Oh, not at all," Arthas explained. "They seem to be under the impression that they're in charge of me, so I figure it doesn't help things to tell them otherwise."

Illidan did not smile. "What did you mean, help me leave?"

"Well, you did plan on trying to escape them, right? I mean, it wouldn't do to let them kill you, now would it?"

"A true warrior does not run from his foes," Illidan retorted icily.

"He does if he wants to beat them someday," said Arthas.

"What's all the noise?" Illidan said suddenly. He had been distracted by the unorthodoxy of the death knight's entrance, but now it seemed that the situation was not hostile, and the elf's previous train of thought was coming back to him. "What is causing this disturbance?"

"Oh, the Legion is trying to burn the forest down," Arthas said casually.

"Now why would they do that?"

"I had somebody tell them to. Demons are real big on burning things, and not real big on creativity. This probably sounded like a great idea when they heard it." Arthas looked up at the elf, who towered over him by nearly a full head. "Listen, Illidan. I know we're not the closest of friends, but I really do want to help you out of this mess, and as much as I like your company, I don't have a lot of time. Are you going to let me get you out of here, or not?"

"I'm sorry, Arthas. I will not flee."

"Suit yourself," Arthas said. He shrugged and turned away.

The demon hunter collapsed suddenly. Arthas turned back around.

"Morte, what did you do?" A second death knight was hunched over the demon hunter's unconscious form, his runesword unsheathed.

"Relax, I just nicked him. He'll live." The knight sheathed his weapon.

"Good. Now, grab his ankles, and I'll get his arms." They did so. "I've got a use for you yet, Illidan."


	6. Do Not Interfere

Kokoro ran quickly down the mountain path; he knew not where to. An image had flared to life in his mind's eye, a shadowy map which urged towards something. He knew he sought something at the end of the path which would weaken his enemy, Ner'zhul; something which would cripple the deranged warlock and bring him to his knees at Kokoro's feet.

"Kil'jaeden," he said softly, "where are you taking me?"

The path leveled off; it had long left the mountain itself behind, winding now between the wooded bluffs and foothills. He could see smoke on the horizon, but from what? Was not every demon and mortal who cared about the fate of the world embattled beneath the boughs of the World Tree? Who could be burning the forest rather than fighting?

He sensed something suddenly, and ducked to one side, just missing the blurred shape that swung at him. He rolled and recovered, unsheathing his sword and regaining his feet to face his attacker.

Before him stood a creature made of bone. It resembled a human or orcish skeleton, greatly elongated to exaggerate its more fearsome features. Demonic horns emerged from the top of its skull, and a cloud of frost hung about its mouth when it exhaled. It shrieked and waved a staff of ebony in Kokoro's direction, and began to chant.

Kokoro knew what the thing was; it was a lich. There had been dozens of the undead creatures serving the Horde during the Second War, supposedly created by the great Warlock, Gul'dan, from the bodies of fallen orcish spellcasters. Kokoro had long supposed the wretched abominations silenced for good, but with the coming of the Scourge he had seen that whoever now lorded over the undead had set a new elite order of liches upon the world.

Whoever now lorded over the undead... of course. Ner'zhul. It made so much sense for the great warlock to command the ranks of the dead; it explained everything, from the strict organization and sheer genius behind the invasion to the Scourge's inborn knowledge of the orcs' and humans' weaknesses. It was clear that to find Ner'zhul would be to find the source and master of the Scourge itself... and to destroy the Warlock would be to banish the armies of the dead forever from the face of the world.

First, however, the warlock's servant needed to be dealt with.

"Lich," Kokoro taunted, his skin tingling, "I know what you are. You are Ner'zhul's puppet."

The skeletal mage ceased to chant. "Ssstupid orc," it hissed. "What do you know about Ner'zzzhul?"

"I know enough," Kokoro said. He gripped his blade tightly.

"Cursssed fool," the lich rasped. "Thisss one doesss not play gamesss." It resumed its chanting.

_Kill him,_ said Kil'jaeden's voice in Kokoro's ear. The orc shouted something; he didn't know what. He leapt at the lich, swinging his blade in a wide arc towards the wretch's neck.

The creature never even blinked.

The sword, girded in flames, struck the lich's throat and snapped it; its hellish skull crashed to the ground. The rest of the body collapsed into dust and quickly melting ice.

Kokoro thought about the lich. The spellcasters were not often leaders of the Scourge; more likely, the creature's presence here meant some greater commander was nearby – perhaps a demon of some sort, or maybe even one of the Scourge's elite generals, the dreaded death knights.

The orc recalled absently the tale he had heard of the death knight called Arthas. Once a valiant human prince, he had murdered his father and betrayed his kingdom before joining the ranks of the Scourge. From what was said, it seemed Arthas was rather high up in the undead hierarchy. If he was here, and could be killed...

_Yes_, said the voice of Kil'jaeden. _Kill him_.

Kokoro looked down at the skull at his feet; of the body, it alone remained, scowling up at him. On impulse, he raised his foot and stamped down upon the skull, which shattered like glass beneath his heel.

"So shall your champion be crushed, Ner'zhul," he said. If it was Arthas that was responsible for the smoke on the horizon, if it was Arthas that had summoned the lich, if Arthas was indeed nearby, then Kokoro would find him, and kill him.

"And then, Ner'zhul," he said softly, "I shall come for you."

* * *

  


A war horn sounded. The demons were advancing.

The last line of trees had fallen, smoldering, to the ground, and the lines of the Legion army were advancing steadily over the newly-cleared area. A second horn sounded in response, and a flag of parley went up from the Scourge army. The Legion paused at a respectful distance as the undead generals and their attendants approached.

Mephistroth and Anetheron felt like fools; an army of paltry undead at their backs, and the full force of the Legion in front of them. They knelt on one knee and lowered their heads as they waited for the Legion general to meet them.

The first horn sounded again; the ranks of the Legion parted somewhat to form a long aisle up the center of their formation. From this aisle emerged the hulking, crimson form of Azgalor.

"Ah, brothers nathrezim," the mammoth Pit Lord spat jovially. "Have you come to surrender?"

"We have come," said Mephistroth, as he and his brother stood, "to inquire why the Legion feels the need to chase us all over Kalimdor! Should you not be with Lord Archimonde at the World Tree?"

"I might ask you two vermin the same question," Azgalor retorted.

"We are under _special_ orders," Anetheron said.

"Archimonde didn't tell me about any 'special orders'," sniffed the Pit Lord.

"That's because Kil'jaeden doesn't need to tell Archimonde every time he wants us to do something." Mephistroth rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"You are here by Kil'jaeden's orders?" Azgalor's tone was incredulous.

"Didn't I just say that?" Mephistroth asked.

The Pit Lord growled. "What exactly is it you're doing?"

"We are looking for Tich—" Anetheron began, but Mephistroth interrupted.

"That's none of your business," he said hastily, but the Pit Lord grinned.

"What about Tichondrius?" he asked. "Tichondrius is dead. What are you after – his killer?"

Anetheron nodded slowly, and Mephistroth bit his lip.

"Well? What have you done? Are you close, little dreadlords? I wouldn't want to let your prey escape while we were talking here, now would I?" As a matter of fact, the Pit Lord decided, that would be a great idea. That would show the insolent little dreadlords who was in charge.

"Actually," Anetheron spat venomously, "we've got him cornered right in this wood. I've sent the little brat, Arthas, to collect him already."

"Is that so?" the Pit Lord said slowly. "I'm afraid I'll have to check into that myself." He closed his eyes and focused on the image of Kil'jaeden. There was a long pause, and then...

"WHAT DO YOU WANT, AZGALOR?" Kil'jaeden's voice boomed. The Pit Lord opened his eyes. Kil'jaeden's torso, shoulders, and head hovered in the air nearby. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" the voice repeated.

"I am sorry to interrupt you, Lord," Azgalor said meekly, "but it seems I've run into a couple of your other servants." He gestured to the dreadlords. "They claim you want them to find Tichondrius' killer."

"YES, I DO." There was a pause. "WAS THAT IT, AZGALOR?"

"Well, no, Lord," the Pit Lord said, obviously flustered – he had been sure the dreadlords were lying. He searched his mind for something, anything, that he could use to incriminate the two demons, for they were making him look like a fool.

He thought of something, and smiled. "My Lord, I was simply wondering if you knew that they sent the Lich King's pawn, Arthas, out alone to retrieve their prey? Arthas, whose very existence is an instrument of the Lich King's rebellion?" He sneered at the dreadlords, sure he had them trapped. They seemed to think so too, for they were shaking in fear.

Kil'jaeden, however, was not so quick to follow the Pit Lord's lead. "YES, I KNOW THE TRAITOR ARTHAS IS DOING THEIR WORK FOR THEM, BUT DO NOT WORRY, AZGALOR – ARTHAS IS HARDLY AN OBSTACLE YET. THE LITTLE BRAT WILL PROBABLY DIE WHEN HE TASTES ILLIDAN STORMRAGE'S BLADES.

"NO, ANETHERON AND MEPHISTROTH HAVE NOT FAILED IN THEIR TASK YET, ALTHOUGH HAVE MADE SOME MISTAKES. AT LEAST THEY ARE TRYING. WHAT ABOUT YOU, AZGALOR? YOU HAD A TASK AS WELL. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ACCOMPLISH IT?"

"My Lord, they have betrayed—" Azgalor began, but it did no good.

"YOU WERE TOLD TO RALLY THE LEGION TOGETHER, AND INSTEAD YOU ARE THREATENING MY TRUSTED GENERALS? I WOULD THAT YOU WERE THE TRAITOR, AZGALOR."

The dreadlords were snickering now. Azgalor was sweating. "My Lord, please—"

"SILENCE, ALL OF YOU." Azgalor shut his mouth, and the dreadlords' snickering stopped. "YOU ARE ALL FAILING MISERABLY, BUT I HAVE NOT LOST HOPE FOR YOU. KNOW THAT I AM SENDING SOMEONE TO YOU, SOMEONE WHO WILL SET RIGHT THE MISTAKES THAT YOU HAVE MADE."

"Who is this servant, Lord?" Mephistroth asked.

"AN ORC OF SORTS," Kil'jaeden said. "HE IS MY CHAMPION, AND HE SHALL FIND BOTH THE FUGITIVE, ILLIDAN, AND THE LICH KING'S PUPPET, ARTHAS, AND KILL THEM FOR ME."

"We are supposed to work with an orc?" Azgalor was visibly insulted.

"NO, AZGALOR, YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO STAY OUT OF HIS WAY. LET HIM COME AND COMPLETE HIS TASK, AND TRY NOT TO GET YOURSELVES KILLED IN THE MEANTIME."

"But, my Lord—"

"SILENCE, ANETHERON! I HAVE SPOKEN. YOU ARE NOT TO INTERFERE WITH MY CHAMPION'S TASK. IF YOU DO..." He let the threat hang for a moment. "DO NOT INTERFERE." The image faded, leaving the three demons staring at one another in awkward silence.


	7. The Perfect Catalyst

Archimonde stood atop a shallow hill, his fist raised theatrically into the afternoon air. The air crackled with energy, and the very mountain beneath his feet seemed to shudder. Birds fled into the air, and beasts took refuge in hollows. All around him, trees shook as though caught up in a hurricane.

This was far from inaccurate. Around Mount Hyjal, a storm was brewing.

Archimonde and his army had come far up the sheer slope of the Mountain, and before him, the vanguards of his enemies stretched, awaiting his crushing heel. At the top of the summit, around the feet of the World Tree itself, a Night Elf camp encircled. There was a second circle, like it, a bit farther down, and between them, a few scattered orc and human strongholds. A wide path, like a highway, wound around the slope of the Mountain from the hilltop beneath Archimonde's feet to the very summit, intersecting each stronghold. It was up this highway that the Legion would flow, like a river of dread, to drown the mortal world.

From the summit, a green light suddenly shone, and Archimonde threw up his arm despite himself to shield his eyes. After a few moments, the light subsided, and he looked around. Before him, in the middle of his highway, a wall of trees had sprung up, blocking the path of the demonic army.

"Stormrage," he cursed. He roared. And then he did something far more frightening: he laughed.

"Hear me, mortals!" the great Eredar called, sneering, once more raising his fist toward the World Tree's distant branches. The whole planet seemed to shake with the sound of his voice. "The time for reckoning has come!"

There was a clap of thunder, and a sound like a thousand crieS of despair. From the center of the legion of thunderheads orbiting in the skies above, a black shape broke free, plummeting towards the ground. As it drew nearer, those who occupied the mortal strongholds could see that it was not one, but many falling bodies. One by one, the great stones struck the face of the Mountain. For many moments the rained, and then, quite suddenly, they stopped.

The dust settled. Where the magically sprouted forest had been, and beyond it, to a portion of the Night Elves' nearer circle-fortress, there was now only a vast plain of dirt and craters. Without so much as one demon casualty, the path into the interior of the Mountain's defenses had been laid bare. As one, the surviving defenders sighed and hardened themselves for battle. But Archimonde was not finished. The great demon lowered his arm, which he had forgotten was still raised, and closed his eyes.

From every crater, an angry, defiant roar resounded. There were some among the amassed mortals who recognized the sound. There were some who did not. All of them cringed in terror.

From every crater, a burning figure emerged. All together, the infernals numbered in the thousands. With a second, violent roar, the entire mass of them charged toward up the highway toward the first mortal citadel, where the battered banner of the human Alliance waved.

As they charged, twilight fell over Mount Hyjal.

***

Kokoro's blade fell to earth like a flash of lightning. A skull clattered to the ground. Clunk.

He turned and whipped the sword around behind him. Two more skeleton warriors lost their heads. Clunk. Clunk.

Everywhere around the red-skinned orc, the undead swarmed. Their numbers seemed limitless. He jabbed forward, slashing a ghoul in twain. Three more appeared where it had stood. Far above, twilight clouds moved in to obscure the receding sun, and he thought he heard the roar of thunder behind the guttural cries of the Scourge. In the corner of his vision, he was sure he saw a flash of lightning.

Or perhaps it was just his sword. Clunk.

He ducked to avoid some sort of flaming missile, pivoted, and gored through a trio of ghouls. Placing his foot on the forehead of a fallen necromancer, the orc launched himself backwards, over the heads of a pack of crypt fiends. As the reanimated spiders struggled to turn around, Kokoro's sword whipped into the center of them and spilled thick, black blood onto the forest floor. Letting loose a fiendish cry, the lone warrior spun into a whirlwind of blood and death, wreaking havoc on the gathered swarm.

Relaxing his attack for a moment, the orc paused to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow. Reinforcements closed in over the bodies of the fallen as those near enough to necromancers rose up again in defiance. Cornered again, the demonic orc raised his blade in grim salute, preparing to charge back into the fray.

Thunder boomed. And then there was silence.

Kokoro glanced around, uneasy. Everywhere, the swarm had stopped moving, as if frozen in some invisible block of ice. Warily, the orc lashed out at a nearby abomination.

Clunk. Nothing happened.

The orc was suddenly aware of a haphazard aisle that had opened through the middle of the seemingly paused fray. He squinted; yes, his eyes had not deceived him. Three figures were coming up the aisle towards his position. As the approached, Kokoro tightened his grip on his blade.

"Warrior," a hissing voice called out. He could see the figures clearly now; the two on either side were Nathrezim dreadlords, vile, serpentine demons that Kokoro knew traveled commonly with the Scourge. The central figure, however, nearly stopped his heart in his chest. Like some abominated parody of a centaur, it rose from the ground on four mammoth legs, and with thick, taloned hands, it grasped a wicked-looking two-headed adamantium spear. Its head swelled, impossibly large, from its vast neck, which was as far around as the greatest Ironroot tree the orc had ever seen. And from the head sneered a cruel, diabolic face, the very illustration of evil. Kokoro knew that the voice that had spoken belonged to this face, for it was a voice from his nightmares, and his blackest memories.

"Mannoroth," he said, as the great beast lumbered to a halt before him. The dreadlords alighted on either side. For all his natural and demon-driven ferocity and skill, the Slayer of Shadowmoon felt suddenly very weak. He lowered his sword to the grass, leaning on it for support.

"No," the great demon hissed. "I am no Mannoroth." His disgusting voice seemed to chuckle; it was the sound of snapping bones. "I am no Mannoroth, the Destructor who was destroyed. I am no Mannoroth, who let himself be felled by his own _pets_."

"Wh-what are you?"

"I am Azgalor, Protector of the Legion. I serve the one you call Kil'jaeden, the Deceiver." With the word _deceiver_, Azgalor raised his face heavenward and spread a pair of greasy, black wings which sprouted sickeningly from his back. One of the dreadlords stifled a yawn.

Kokoro laughed suddenly. With the sound of laughter, whatever moment the overlarge demon had hoped to create shattered around him. He snapped his neck back down and glared at the red-skinned orc in annoyance.

"Azgalor… I have heard of _you_. You are one of Kil'jaeden's lackeys. A rather low-level Pit Lord, if I recall. I can't imagine how I mistook you for one as powerful, if admittedly stupid, as Mannoroth." He laughed again, and added, "Perhaps it was the smell."

"Foolish orc!" Azgalor hissed. "You should show more respect to those who hold your life in their hands."

"Since when do you hold my life in your hands, Pit Lord? You dare not touch me. I've been sent by the Deceiver himself."

"Well, _that's_ not so impressive," said the dreadlord who had yawned. "So is he." He motioned to Azgalor. "So am I."

"Me too!" the second dreadlord chimed in.

"Silence, insects," Azgalor hissed to his companions.

"You'll let me pass unharmed," Kokoro said coolly. "And if the disorganization of your army is any indication of how much you've annoyed Kil'jaeden already, I expect you'll even assist me before he learns you've gotten in my way."

"Half-blooded whelp," the Pit Lord whispered menacingly, "how would you like me to make it run in the grass?"

"I wasn't speaking to _you_, Pit Lord," the orc growled. To the first dreadlord, he said softly, "Where is the one called Arthas?"

***

Arthas Terenas. Arthas Frostmourne. Arthas the Betrayer. The boy shade who wore the Death Knights' armor had had many names in his lives. At the moment, Illidan Stormrage was simply calling him 'bastard'.

"I wish he'd say something else," Morte said, yawning. They had fastened the elven sorcerer to a slab of stone near the mouth of a small cave. Carvings on the interior of the chamber suggested it had once been used by druids, but the overgrowth of the forest suggested the location had not been used for quite some time. Illidan had returned somewhat to consciousness, as evidenced by his repeated cursing of the two undead knights. He was not yet strong enough to break through the bonds, although both Frostmourne and Morte's blade, Icehowl, lay nearby just in case.

"Bastards," the prisoner said again. He spat on the ground.

"Charming, Illidan dear," Arthas said mockingly. "Didn't the Wardens teach you anything while they had you locked away?" Illidan muttered something in elvish and strained against his bonds. The two death knights laughed. "We'll need some catalyst, of course, before we can set him loose again. I _had_ hoped he'd been stronger when we found him. No matter, though; I'll set Araj on him when he returns."

"Speaking of which, where is the old bone pile?" Morte piped up.

Arthas had been about to echo him, saying that they it couldn't have taken that long for the lich to complete his task and that Araj should have returned by now, when he suddenly felt the telltale creep of frost up his neck. From Morte's stifled shiver, it appeared that the other death knight had felt the same sensation. Sure enough, the grim form of Arthas' second-favorite lich floated over the side of the cave and alighted next to the chained Illidan.

"Araj!" Arthas greeted the frozen wizard warmly. Perhaps in deference to his addressee, however, the prince's tone then turned icy. "Where have you been? I sent you back through the forest over an hour ago to steer that bumbling Pit Lord and his army towards the dreadlords and our own forces. What took you so long?"

"Trouble," the lich hissed. "Thisss one encountered a red-ssskinned orc at the foressssst'sssss edge, and he desssstroyed thisss one'sss body. Thisss one hasss only now returned from the Altar of Darknesssss." He added, "The orc wasss a blademassster."

"A red-skinned orc?" Morte echoed, incredulous. "But Mannoroth is long dead by now!"

"Thisss one knowsss what he sssaw, Death Knight," Araj spat. "Thisss sssaysss he wasss red-ssskinned, and he wassss!"

"Calm down," Arthas said softly. He was thinking. "Evidently either Archimonde or Kil'jaeden have come up with a new way to charge the orcs' blood. Not that it really matters. The orcs are aligned with the humans and night elves, against the Legion, so there is probably only one of them come to bother us." He looked at Illidan, still chained to the stone formation. "Why, he'd make the perfect catalyst."

"Catalyssst, Prinssse?" Araj hissed. Morte was grinning.

"Nothing important, Araj. You may have just bought yourself your life." He laughed at the lich's confused expression. Morte grinned. "Now then, those dreadlords are expecting a flare, aren't they? Why don't you give them one?"

***

The mana flare exploded above the line of the treetops in a magnificent beacon of fire and ice. The light was nearly blinding, illuminating for miles around the twilit sky.

"What is –" Azgalor began to say, but Kokoro had already set off running, his blade in tow. Without so much as a word, Mephistroth and Anetheron leapt into the air and flapped off after him, towards the place where the flare had broken the endless monotony of the forest canopy.


	8. Dynamic Forces

The world turned.

On one continent, in one forest, at the foot of one mountain, a battle was being fought. Men and demons, mortals and immortals, fought and died alike. Destiny was shaped by every moment, the course of history altered by every sword that joined the fray, every arrow that left a bow. Every minute's clash held a thousand possibilities, every bead of sweat and drop of blood and grain of dirt a mathematician's headache: the inescapable paradox that the probability of any _one_ outcome was infinitesimal, and yet the probability of _some_ outcome was assured.

Steel clashed. Bolts of wood and magic found flesh targets. Warriors died, and their grim replacements roared defiantly into the fields of carnage.

The world turned on.

***

High above the lines of latitude which bound the regions any sane creature would venture, the great still throne of Ner'zhul the Lich King stood, seemingly eternal, lording over the vast, unmapped wastelands at the roof of the world. A layer of frost hung over the whole place, forbidding and foreboding. Nothing moved.

Unchanging the Icecrown glacier seemed, and undying the near-to-immortal lord which sat, entombed, within it. The being called Ner'zhul had lived many lives, and died many deaths, more than any mortal knew. Those who guessed at a sum never neared the truth, for even those who knew him best (and they were few) doubted more than a small handful of incarnations. He had been orc, demon, undead; shaman, warlock, lich; rogue, chieftain, emperor; and a hundred others besides. After so long an existence and so many defeats, even the longest-lived mortal who learned the truth would surely call him ancient.

Time was as meaningless as war fought by men and demons, so far away below him. The Lich King measured his life not in minutes, but in moments, and a moment could be a few seconds or a few centuries. The world turned, and so did Ner'zhul.

***

Far away in a place that resembled a nightmare, the great behemoth Kil'jaeden watched his mirrors with interest. Even the sum of the lifetimes of the many-times-killed Ner'zhul was but a heartbeat in the span of the demon's long existence, and yet, for a moment, his attention was drawn to something. On a tiny, young world, on a slab of green earth amid waves of paltry blue, in a single, minute clearing, something important was about to happen.

***

The Lich King blinked suddenly. It was a small motion, undetectable even if there had been another living being on the other side of his icy prison walls. Yet he had lived so many moments still, frozen, that it seemed as massive and earth-shattering as if all the grim, cold boundaries of his tomb had fallen down around him. His mind was an orgasm of feeling sudden movement, and all he had done was blink one of his unseeing eyes, concealed behind sheets of ice and dark clouds of energy.

Far away, to the south, something important was about to happen, far more so than the paltry war the men and demons fought. In his mind's eye, the blind Lich King looked at a clearing, and saw for the first time the pair of dynamic forces poised to collide – poised to collide because he, blind, had set them on their wretched course.

For the first time since he could remember, Ner'zhul felt apprehension. It was not fear, for it could not harm him. Nor was it lament, for he did not regret its occurring. It was merely an enthralled attention, as if no force in this world or another could stop him from seeing this event through.

***

The world turned on, but Ner'zhul did not notice.

***

Illidan shuddered. Something terrible was coming, something as demonic as he, and as mortal as he as well. He could not explain what it was he felt, only that it was filled with dread. He had to break free of his bonds, had to escape before the terrible something could reach him…

Snap, snap. Ropes broke from his wrists, frayed by the sheer force of his body and his will. He stood, searching with his mind's eye for an escape, any escape…

***

Kokoro stepped cautiously into the clearing, his sword a beacon before him, lighting his feet. The traitor, Arthas, was nowhere to be seen, yet a new creature stood now in the clearing, a being Kokoro had never seen. It appeared to be almost an elf, in the same way Kokoro himself was almost an orc. He stared into the creature's face, which was obscured partly by a blindfold.

"What are you, creature?"

"I am Illidan," the being said simply.

***

Illidan felt, rather than saw, the half-demon he dreaded step into the clearing a few yards from him, and he felt, rather than heard, its words and his own. It would be pointless to run, he realized. He turned to face the creature, his expression grim and resolved. On the ground, Arthas' discarded Runeblade lay, abandoned or forgotten. Illidan picked it up.

"Illidan," the orc-being said. "I am Kokoro. I am here to kill you."

"Come then," Illidan said. This being, he saw, was not his superior but his equal. This duel would be an epic one, a battle royale. To die in this way was honorable, and though it would not absolve his sins, perhaps it would at least earn him peace from the pain he had endured so long.

"Come then," he repeated, smiling slightly as he recalled a similar twilight not long before when another being had uttered the same phrase. "You'll find we're evenly matched."

***

Archimonde howled with triumph, his mighty form illuminated by the flames of the burning human castle. The last smoldering parapet collapsed beside him as he posed majestically atop a grassy hilltop. There was a girl there, a human girl, and she muttered something. Archimonde chuckled at her, and she shouted something in defiance. There was a flash of magic, and she vanished, leaving the great demon to laugh towards the sky.

Far away in the place like a nightmare, and above, at the roof of the world, others knew it was a fool's laughter that insulted the evening sky with its sound. Kil'jaeden and Ner'zhul watched, and with them the great tree itself stared ever down at the howling, snickering Archimonde, and beyond him, to the dynamic forces which clashed in the forest at the mountain's feet.

***

Kokoro lunged forward, his blade singing a symphony of flame and death. Illidan lunged as well, the blade he wielded shrieking in defiance. The weapons clashed, ringing out through the evening air, which crackled with energy.

The orc swung; the elf parried. Illidan lunged again; Kokoro dodged. They circled, struck and retreated, then circled again. In the distance, an owl hooted. Steel blades peeled like bells, and unnatural roars sang in tune. The dance began.


	9. The Orb of Kil'jaeden

Far above the clearing, in the sprawling branches of a massive Doom Oak, Mephistroth and Anetheron perched, nearly motionless, two ageless scavengers watching the battle below, waiting to swoop down and finish off the survivor at the duel's conclusion. The sun had long set in the distance, behind the eastern horizon, far off at sea, and above the dreadlords' heads, the pale blue moon looked down, as if it, too awaited the duel's conclusion.

"Wish they'd be done with it already," Anetheron murmured quietly. His talons gripped the wood branch tightly, sinking an inch or so into reddish bark of the great tree. He yawned absently. Next to him, his companion's wings bobbed forward and back ever so slightly, counting off seconds of the battle. Mephistroth's tail twitched in illustration of his boredom. Anetheron blinked, and then moved an arm to bat an insect away from his neck.

"Four rubies on the orc," Mephistroth said.

"You're on," Anetheron replied.

***

Kokoro swung his sword at Illidan's blindfolded head. The elf ducked deftly, bringing his own weapon upwards towards his enemy's unprotected chest. Kokoro feinted left, then rolled right, under Illidan's blade, lashing out with his own towards the elf's legs. Illidan jumped a few inches into the air, swinging his body in a half circle to bring his weapon down on the orc's neck. Kokoro dodged, moving into a squat and whipping his sword upwards to strike at Illidan, but the demon hunter moved aside, pushing out with his own sword to deflect the blademaster's attack. The two blades met in the air, and for a moment neither combatant moved.

Kokoro's eyes narrowed. The two each flipped backwards, disengaging. Illidan lowered his Runeblade to his side, and Kokoro lodged his own sword in the soft earth of the clearing floor.

"You fight like no demon I've ever faced, Kokoro."

"And you like no elf. You are a worthy adversary, Illidan. I will enjoy this battle."

"As will I." Illidan smiled. Then his expression stiffened. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

The orc grinned, betraying a pair of pointed, fanglike teeth to protrude over his lip. "Yes, let's." He plucked his sword out of the cold earth, and Illidan raised his in challenge.

The savage melody of the duel resumed.

***

"_Who_ is here?" Azgalor's voice sounded incredulous.

"Prince Arthas, lord," his attendant repeated. "He says he's got an offer for you."

"Bah! Bring him to me!" the demon bellowed. The attendant nodded, and disappeared around the bend of the forest. A few moments later, the form of Arthas emerged, appearing just as Azgalor had pictured him in his Death Knight's garb and dark cloak.

"So, the puny insurgent comes to turn himself in, eh? I hope you are not appealing to a _demon_ for mercy?" The Pit Lord chuckled.

"Don't be stupid," Arthas retorted. Azgalor noted with discomfort that the boy was without his vaunted Runeblade, Frostmourne, of which the Pit Lord had been warned; according to what his spies knew, the weapon had been forged within the very walls of the Icecrown glacier by the Lich King himself, and imbued with untold powers. Azgalor did not understand why the absence of such a weapon should alarm him; it was beyond his meager understanding that its lack meant Arthas had greater confidences in his own abilities. "I have an offer for you, Azgalor."

"You will speak to me with respect, maggot," Azgalor interrupted. "You should call me _Lord_ or _Master_."

"So that you can order me around like some imp? No, demon. There is no part of me that serves the Legion's will."

"_All_ of you serves the Legion!"

"Which is the same thing. Soon, you and your brethren will all be gone from this world forever."

"I doubt that very much, little human."

"Doubt away. I did not come here to convince you. I have an offer, as I've said."

"Bah! I have no time for ransom or tribute!"

"And this is neither. You do not hold my life in your hand, and if you did, I would not ask it. As it is, there is something quite different I desire."

"What makes you think there is anything that would make _me_ aid _you_?"

"This." From his cloak, Arthas pulled out a small, nearly invisible sphere of the darkest, most lifeless crimson. "I assume you recognize it?"

"The Orb of Kil'jaeden!" Azgalor cried. "Where did you get that, Death Knight?"

"It was given to my master long ago, as a token of the power Kil'jaeden would bestow upon the Scourge. My lord gave it to me, and I offer it to you."

"Such a thing should not be yours to give," Azgalor muttered. "It is dark – dead. Why?"

"My master would not touch it. Its powers disgusted him, and so the Orb has withered from want of use." Azgalor shifted his eyes away from the artifact, forcing himself to look into Arthas's face. The Death Knight's ice-blue pupils met the demon's gaze.

"Your master is fool not to have seized such power," Azgalor said.

"Perhaps. Have you the will to use it where he did not?"

"I have!"

"Will you do whatever I ask?"

"I will, Death Knight, if you will give me the Orb!"

"Then its powers must be great indeed. Very well. Do what I ask, and it is yours."

"Anything! I will bring you the moon if you wish it!"

"Leave the moon alone for now, Azgalor. I am interested in something much nearer." Arthas closed his eyes, remembering. "There stands a Demon Gate in this wood. I have seen it. It was closed by Illidan, the very enemy your pet dreadlords are seeking, when he slew their brother, Tichondrius. It connects directly with the fabric of the Twisting Nether, from whence the Legion comes. It was by this gate that demons first came to Kalimdor, ages ago, before the Sundering." 

Azgalor nodded. "I remember the day it brought me here. This world was so young, so fragile. I swore then I would crush it."

Arthas' eyes opened again. "Use the Orb to reopen the gate, and you may keep it."

Azgalor swallowed, hesitant. When he replied, he spoke slowly and solemnly, knowing that it was a very vague yet dangerous line he was crossing with what he said, and that there would be no returning.

"Very well, Death Knight," he said. His eyes returned to the dormant Orb, wherein he thought he saw the first glimmers of a newly-burning flame. "I will do what you ask."

***

Kokoro grunted in pain. Frostmourne bit his arm, drawing a thin line of fiery red blood. Illidan withdrew for a moment as his enemy reeled and staggered.

"Do you give in, demon?" he asked.

"Not yet, elf," Kokoro replied, forcing himself back to a defensive stance. He cried out, not in pain, but in defiance, his mouth shaping syllables from some ancient and meaningless battle hymn. His wound was already healing shut, his natural regeneration augmented by the pulse of the demon blood in his veins and the rhythm of the battle itself.

Beneath his skin, however, the cold touch of Frostmourne lingered, waiting.


	10. Too Late Now for the Legion

Archimonde scanned the lines of the trees that clung to the rocky sides of Mount Hyjal like ants on an oak limb. To his demon ultravision, the tiny orcish brutes that now charged the Legion's line were far from obscured beneath the thick blackness of the night. They stood out like little green beacons, glowing amid the dark sea of the forested mountainside. The highway of death yawned before them, swallowing them before they knew that they ran to their doom.

The cadre of warriors neared the foot of the shallow hill that held the demons' position, and the foremost yelped in sudden pain, the ghost of a battle cry mutilated upon his lips before he could release it. His fellows followed suit, the tiny black shapes that buzzed about them in the darkness reducing them quickly to bones or less. Almost instantly and almost silently, the orcish attack was eviscerated before it reached its target.

Around the spiraling bend of the highway, Archimonde knew, the orcs' fortress lay, prostrated before its demise like some tiny speck of sand before all the magnitude of an ocean wave. As surely as his next breath would escape his lungs, the demon's path lay through that fortress, and as sure as he had demolished countless worlds, he would crush the orcs without blinking.

***

Azgalor shivered as he looked up at the twisted mass of the Demon Gate. It was overgrown from millennia of disuse, wrapped so tightly in vines and foliage that nature herself seemed to be slowly digesting it. To a passerby, it would blend inescapably into the background of the forest. To Azgalor, however, it glared offensively in the dim night, as bare and brazen as it had stood in the first hour of its existence.

It had been no trouble to locate; though the paths had changed over the countless centuries, the demon still knew the wood by heart. The Gate seemed still to call to him, to beckon him back to the Nether pits which had spawned him. He stood before it now, the Orb of Kil'jaeden in his palm. Already the tiny sphere seemed larger than when he had plucked it from the fool Arthas' dead fingers. The boy was as big an idiot as his master not to have used the Orb when he had had the chance. Now its power was beyond the boy forever – for now it belonged to Azgalor.

The Pit Lord raised the artifact towards the Gate. He gasped slightly as it jumped from his bloated hand into the air, glowing a bright ruby red. A low, steady hum began to issue forth from the Gate; it was beginning to open. Azgalor smiled, watching his prize dance in the air.

***

Kil'jaeden blinked. Something was not right. For just a moment, a flare of energy had distracted his attention from the battle between the orc and the elf, something in the same very forest. He searched for its sources, but could find nothing.

The demon lord shrugged, and returned his focus to Kokoro's and Illidan's duel.

***

Inside the body of the orc, Kokoro, the cold of Frostmourne's touch lingered. Illidan had thrown down the weapon, finding it unsatisfactory to his technique, and was now matching Kokoro's sword slashes with blows from a long stick of maple that had fallen from a tree nearby. The sword was such a barbaric weapon, and like most night elves, Illidan had little experience wielding one. The wooden shaft was a much friendlier ally in his hands – much to Kokoro's regret.

The orc had slowed down after Illidan's first successful blow, and though he fought harder than ever, the cold of the Runeblade's touch remained within him, devouring his strength, eating up his fire.

Illidan swung hard, and Kokoro barely ducked away from the wood stick before it swished by his head. The blind elf smiled, reversing the motion. Kokoro ducked again.

What was happening to him?

The skull ornately carved into Frostmourne's handle stared up at the orc from where Illidan had dropped it. It seemed to be laughing at him.

***

"Morte!" The older death knight turned around as Arthas approached.

"Ho, Arthas. Did he buy it?"

"Of course. It's too late now for the Legion – I think Archimonde's about to seal the deal any minute."

"Yes, the poor, poor Legion. Alas, oh, alas for them."

"Is Araj in position?"

"As you ordered. Illidan and the orc are nearly finished with their tiff as well."

"Who's winning?"

"Illidan, of course. The orc's got spirit, but our boy's just the plain better fighter."

"Remind me to fetch my sword when it's over."

"Right."

***

The orc Warchief vanished as Archimonde muttered an arcane phrase. The last orc structure exploded in flames. The Eredar grinned, looking up at the World Tree's branches; the highway was nearly bare of resistance now. Soon, Archimonde and the Legion would taste the destruction of this world, starting with this great Tree. The Ordering of Azeroth would at long last be undone.

Archimonde looked out across the wreckage of the orc fortress to the final obstacle in his path – the sacred grove of the night elves. The grove stood at the very summit of the mountain, at the base of the Tree itself. It was nearly bare, a few dozen treants and their elven keepers. Victory was at hand.

***

Illidan swung hard with the wood shaft, knocking Kokoro's blade aside. The elf pivoted, bringing the weapon back to strike the orc's exposed flank. Kokoro staggered, and Illidan leapt in the air, twirling the staff in a wide arc. The wood struck Kokoro's head and shattered. The orc collapsed.

***

"Pay up," Anetheron said.

"Afterwards," Mephistroth answered, letting go of the branch he had gripped with his talons and sinking towards the ground. His comrade followed.

***

Illidan's blood was everywhere, as was the blood of his adversary. They mingled on the forest floor, on Illidan's skin, and on the broken shards of his weapon. He tasted them both in his mouth, mixing them around with his tongue. He swallowed, drinking in his victory. He dropped the remaining end of his stick to the ground, and smiled.

His demon vision flared; he could see so much energy in the air. The orc had spent every drop of his demon-charged blood, and its potency was everywhere; Illidan inhaled sharply, breathing it in. His own powers were boiling inside his tensed muscles, pushing him as he had felt himself being pushed before his metamorphosis. It was the battle against Tichondrius again, and the orc was the Skull of Gul'dan; Illidan absorbed it, devoured it, gulped it down like cool spring water.

It was not enough. He hungered for more.

Two shapes alighted on the grass nearby.

"Hello, Illidan," Mephistroth said. "We have a score to settle with you."

"It is time that Tichondrius was avenged," Anetheron chimed in.

Illidan smiled. It was gluttony and lust and avarice and wrath, all tied up in one twitch of his lips. Then he laughed.

***

Kil'jaeden nodded approvingly, though no one saw the gesture save the imps. Elsewhere, Ner'zhul mentally made a similar expression.

At that moment, the moon disappeared behind a cloud.


	11. It is Time

The night elf's laughter echoed throughout the forest, maniacal and hysteric. The dreadlords eyed him warily. They had prepared themselves for grim defiance or violent rage or even reluctant surrender, but Illidan's crazed laugh set them on edge. Their eyes shifted back and forth from him to each other.

In his mind's eye, Illidan saw the pair illuminated like beacons of red light. They seemed uneasy, unsure of what action to take. He was laughing at their challenge, and the fact that the laughter disturbed them made him laugh harder. It was all so entertaining for him.

Suppressing his laughter to a quiet chuckle, the elf tightened his hands into fists and launched himself towards one of the demons.

Archimonde was also chuckling as he approached the massive roots of the World Tree. The humans' castle lay broken, the orcs' fortress crushed, the night elves' grove charred and dead. There was no one left to die for this Tree. It was time for the Tree itself to die.

Still chuckling to himself, the great Eredar lifted an arm and began to climb.

Azgalor grunted to himself, staring as the red Orb grew steadily larger and steadily brighter, and the gate began to vibrate and glow with the energies of the Nether. He smiled uneasily. He did not understand the power of the Orb fully, he only knew that it was power. He was mostly sure that possessing it would be helpful. Some spark of intuition told him perhaps he should not have trusted the Death Knight's gift, be he shivered and the hunch passed. He was just being skittish. In a few minutes, the gate would finish opening, and the Orb and its powers would be all his.

Anetheron bit his lip, lurching backwards to dodge the elf's punch. Mephistroth grabbed for Illidan's shoulder, bit the elf had moved out of the way already; his leg struck the blue demon's calf, sending the creature to the ground. Anetheron wrapped his arms around Illidan's neck, but again the elf slithered out of the way, landing a blow to the side of the yellow dreadlord's head. Grunting, he too fell to earth.

The dreadlords' eyes, having half closed, reopened fully as they pushed themselves back up. They shook their wings, angered at being unbalanced by a paltry elf. Their opponent sneered

Illidan's laughter began to change into a roar, slowly rising to drown out the cries of his prey.

Arthas whistled to himself as he lay in the grass of the small clearing, his eyes watching the skies. A few feet away, Morte stretched and yawned.

"Time yet?" the lesser Death Knight asked.

"Not quite," Arthas replied. Morte sighed impatiently.

After a moment or so, Arthas went back to his whistling.

Higher, higher, higher Archimonde climbed, until he did not remember why he was climbing. He wanted to destroy this tree, he thought distantly, but for some reason he had to reach the top. He had to reach the top…

Behind him, on a shallow ridge that rose a few meters off of the summit to face the Tree, four figures were gathered. They had been awaiting a fifth, but he, it seemed, would not join them. One raised his prize; he would wait no longer.

Azgalor shook now, visibly confused, yet smiling ridiculously, as if everything he did not understand didn't matter anymore. The Orb had swollen to an amazing side, glowing a rich, bright red like a plump fruit waiting to be plucked.

There was a stump nearby, he saw; it looked to be just tall enough to…

He clambered up upon it. Yes. He was high enough to reach out and touch the Orb; it hovered in front of him, impossibly huge, waiting for his embrace. Slowly, tentatively, he extended his fat arm towards it…

"Is it time yet?" Morte asked again. Arthas did not answer, he simply continued to whistle.

Somewhere, Nowhere, Kil'jaeden the Deceiver leaned forward on his throne, peering with confusion and interest into his mirror. Something was going on, some low, quiet hum of activity he had not noticed before, though it was now quickly rising in volume. Something was not right, something was not right… he probed the mirror violently, scanning the forest again and again… what was going on?

Closer and closer Azgalor stretched his arm; the Orb was suddenly farther away then he had thought. He reached and reached… he was on the edge of the stump… he was leaning farther and farther forward…

The figure raised his prize high above his head as his companions watched. He placed his lips to the horn's tiny opening and blew.

The world shivered.

Sound exploded through the forest, snapping Azgalor's concentration. He stumbled and slipped, careening headfirst forward off of the stump, his arms flailing out of control…

As he fell past the Orb, his finger brushed its side.

Archimonde blinked as the intoxicating feeling of his urge to keep climbing evaporated like a thin mist before the clear, piercing sound of the horn. He looked down at the base of the Tree, already far below him, and spotted the tiny figures huddled at the top of the bluff. A roar of anger escaped his lips as he glared down at them, the beginnings of a spell forming in his mind…

In the depths of the Nether, Kil'jaeden raged.

A ripple formed on the surface of the Orb where Azgalor's finger had touched it, as though the thing was water and not hard stone. The ripple spread instantly around the curvature of the sphere, covering every side. The earth shook, and for the first time, the soft glow of the gate flickered.

Then the universe exploded.

The gate disintegrated, detonating into dozens of pieces which flew apart at every angle. Sections of burning stone fell upon the demon, singing and scarring his hide. Ashes got in his eyes, stabs of lightening attacking his nerves.

Then, as he struggled to watch, the bright, crimson shape of the Orb moved. It accelerated away from the dying gate, through the line of the trees, into the now burning jungle.

Azgalor cried out in pain and despair as a force that he could not control propelled him to his feet and into the trees after the treasure.

Archimonde closed his eyes and opened his lips to speak, but was interrupted by a tiny shock in his side. He opened his eyes and glanced to his right, amused to see the meager form of a wisp hovering beside his arm like a jellyfish stalking a swimming creature. Laughing in spite of himself, Archimonde swatted the spirit away, then turned back to look at his target.

He blinked in surprise. Hovering beside his left ankle was another wisp. This one also shocked him. The demon was now becoming very irritated. He rolled his eyes in mile annoyance, but stopped, as his upward gaze revealed more of the spirits.

Many more.

The wisps swarmed like bees around the side of the Tree, a dozen, then a hundred, then a thousand. He tried to speak his spell, but they shocked his skin and pricked his veins. He was bleeding blue fire, and lightning was exploding out of the places he bled. Lines of white light spread slowly over his body, covering him, flaring in his mind like open wounds.

He threw back his head and screamed. It was the sound that a ferocious beast makes when it knows it is about to die; it was a scream of anger and despair. Then the blue lightning exploded from his chest, and Archimonde was no more.

The flames from the explosion ripped over the Tree, burning away the bark like diseased skin. The branches, leaves and moss crumbled away, the roots shriveling and melting away like hot glass.

Then, slowly, like a rising sun after a long and violent night, a beacon of light emerged from somewhere near the base of the Tree, illuminating for a second the desolation of the burning mountainside before the flaring light blinded anyone who might have been watching, engulfing the Tree and the mountain in its blinding, burning sunrise.

The minions of the Legion despaired as they watched the Tree's destruction encompass the mountainside, the death of their master and general symbolic of their own imminent demises. The sky shifted from night's blackness to brilliant red, and for the second time in the course of the War, the sky rained fire.

Arthas' whistling abruptly stopped. "It is time," he said. Morte sneered. Then the two Death Knights rose and began a calm yet urgently brisk walk into the forest.


	12. It is Done

The Orb was gone, and with it the stability of the gateway's opening. The portal yawned, half-closed, the binds of reality that held it ajar already nearly dissipated. In a few mere minutes, it would seal again entirely, and the last of the doorways to the Nether would be once again shut. The forces of Kil'jaeden and the greater Legion would be powerless to enter the world, and the demons already in Kalimdor would be stranded.

Araj the Summoner hovered about fifteen meters in front of the demonic gate, watching it die. He had been watching quite a long time - watching the clumsy Pit Lord handle the Orb, watching him gasp as it floated into the air and began to swell, watching as he quickly gave in to greed and power-hunger and dared to haphazardly tap into the Orb's energies with his finger – all as Arthas had said he would.

The Orb, disrupted by Azgalor's touch and the concurrent demise of the mighty Archimonde, had been thrown afar into the teeming jungle, and Azgalor, predictably, had gone after it. Araj had played a minor role in its direction, as per his master's instructions, of course, but the reality of the spell's turmoil needed no exaggeration. The process which had reopened the gate had been shattered, the power that fueled the opening removed, and the rift was winding back down.

Since the oaf's disappearing act, Araj had come out from the forest to wait in the open clearing. He could see that the stonework of the gate structure itself was also coming undone to match the metaphysical gateway it housed. Fearless of its death throes, the lich had time to note its beauty as it crumbled. The purple-veined, red-glowing rift was fluctuating and pulsing in to a slower and slower rhythm as its chord to the Nether came unraveled, and Araj could not help but think the image quite exquisite.

_It's time, Araj,_ came Arthas' voice in the undead spellcaster's head. Araj did not reply; his master could sense his acknowledgement.

Moving his skeletal limbs in a wide arc, Araj began to chant his spell, drawing upon the sluggish, churning movement of gate. He allowed the gate, in turn, to tap his own power, but rather than accelerate the rift's oscillations as the Orb had done, Araj was careful instead to use his magic to slow the portal to a gentle stop. The rift did not implode, as it should have without motion for Araj's guiding hand had assured that the connection to the Nether remained intact, yet dormant. The surface of the rift was calm, like a tranquil pond.

Slowly, gently, the lich reversed the motion of his arms. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, almost imperceptibly, the movement of the rift began again. The pulsing was different, now, however; its direction had been inverted. Whereas the doorway had previously seemed to twist like a funnel towards the clearing where the lich hovered, chanting, it now appeared to swirl inward, _away_ from the forest.

Araj smiled, satisfied with his work. Like a cook who has stirred his soup to perfection, he removed his guiding hand from the rift and ended his spell. The gate would continue to swirl for the time required without his perpetuated aid, just as the pot continues to churn peacefully after the cook has removed his stirring spoon. Araj's cooking was done, and all that was left was to let the pot boil down.

The nature of the demonic gateway, like all of its kind, had never been to provide an exit to the Nether; it had been an entrance from thence, a one-way door from the hellish realms of the Great Dark Beyond into mortal Kalimdor. Now, however, its direction had been inverted; it churned like a funneling toilet, flushing out those who had previously rode its currents into the world.

_It is done, master_, he called to Arthas.

_You'll want to be leaving, then_, the Death Knight replied quickly. _It's about to get rather crowded there_.

Kil'jaeden fumed as he watched the portal swirl, but he could do nothing to upset its shift. Angrily, he hefted his mirror and launched it into the abyss of the gateway; immediately it shot back out at him, nearly striking his fiery face.

The demon screamed; all the demons screamed. Many of the Legion's commanders had long known that every soul in the demonic army, from the mightiest Pit Lord down to the lowest felbeast, was tied inexorably to their master and lord, Archimonde. It was by his vast might and power that the servants of Sargeras had been able to enter the world this time, without their imprisoned Titan god, and it was Archimonde's strict control that the spellwork which brought the demons hither allowed them to remain. With the Eredar dead, and that connection instantly and violently severed, the currents of magic which bound and controlled the Legion had frayed, leaving the hordes of demonic warriors and beasts to chaos and panic.

Those who did not know of these ties to Archimonde experienced the results of his death no differently, of course. Within moments of the great demon's annihilation atop the Mountain, the Legion as an organized force ceased to exist. They remained in existence, however, assaulting friend and foe alike with desperation and fear. No leash bound or directed them, and no cause moved them; only pure, instinctual talents for destruction and carnage.

Then, suddenly, they felt the currents of their power moving again. The currents churned, funneling, circling, spiraling away… homeward. Wearied, defeated, and terrified, the myriad agents of the Legion one by one turned their faces towards the gateway, and began to move.

Save one.

Azgalor stampeded blindly through the burning forest, not knowing where he was going, or caring, only sure that he followed the path of the Orb. He had to find it, had to claim its powers as his own. He consciously felt the tug of the gate behind him, urging him homeward, but he pushed its heavy hand from his shoulders. After a time, its influence died away completely, its soft words lost among the cacophonous orders of his new master – the Orb of Kil'jaeden. Assuming the gate could even bear him home to the Nether, to face the Legion's commanders without this prize would be folly. Even that excuse, however, was a distant priority in his mind below the sheer power that he knew resided within the Orb.

He could sense it suddenly, very near to him. It had stopped nearby. Its path had been ended by some tree, or perhaps the earth itself had ended its plummeting motion. Sensing that he was indeed on top of it, he pushed aside one last charred fern and stepped into another clearing. Then he gasped at what he saw.

There, in the center of the clearing, stood Illidan Stormrage. Lightning crackled all around the elf, and it was clear that his features had been altered; no longer was he the meager night elf that his master had spoken of. A pair of jagged horns extended haphazardly from Illidan's forehead, laughable compared to the Pit Lord's massive tusks but a dramatic deviation from the elf's smooth face. Similar pieces of bone had also begun to emerge from Illidan's shoulders, although whether these were to be more horns or perhaps wings or tentacled claws was not clear. A feeling of half-formed power reverberated from the fighter, a feeling of a metamorphosis not yet complete, yet already irreversible.

And in the elf's right hand, open for Azgalor to clearly view, sat the Orb of Kil'jaeden. It had shrunken back to nearly its original size, but it was far from dormant as before; it glowed the same bright red as when it had hovered, humongous, above the demon gate, only now it seemed girded in orange flames. It had not become dormant, it had been tapped.

In despair, Azgalor slumped to the ground, his arms spreading in futility towards the Orb the elf clutched. A deflated cry escaped his lips. The power that he had held in his own palm, the power that had been so close to him, the power he had thirsted for more than he had ever thirsted for water amid the hellfire of the Nether, was gone… tapped by this elf, this mortal.

As the wailing demon collapsed, he noted the bodies of his reluctant companions, the dreadlords Anetheron and Mephistroth. The winged figures lay, unmoving, at Illidan's feet, their features contorted in pain. The night elf had obviously given them rather painful deaths.

"_You_ won't even be a challenge," Illidan said. The sword was long gone from his hands. So was the wood staff he had wielded. He possessed no weapon, yet he needed none. Clasped in his palm was the only tool he would need to dispose of the spent demon. He raised his empty left and hand and focused on the Orb burning in his right.

Azgalor was engulfed by the inferno that exploded from Illidan's palm. He never spoke a word.

It was well into the night. The moon and stars that had labored over the world of their mortal children for eons floated high in the sky, observing the carnage that had befallen their children this day.

The gate's power was nearly spent; its mad swirling, briefly revitalized, was now once more winding down. Now the steady hand of Araj was absent, unable to guide it to a smooth halt. Instead, the rocky debris which made up the ruined portal structure had once more begun to collapse as its metaphysical counterpart likewise died.

Many souls had been swept through the portal, many demons flushed out of the world they had assaulted and back into the Nether that spawned them. The portal would have seemed almost tired then. As the night elven druids know, every object, however mundane, has a spirit attached to it, and the spirit of the portal now was weary. It had grown old, feeble, and the sudden and heavy activity had strained it to the breaking point.

The gate spied one last soul nearby, one final demon near enough to seize. Others remained, distantly, beyond the portal's reach, but these were few. One last lingered within the rift's power, and, with finality, the spirit of the gate longed to devour this last and be done with its work.

The soul shivered; its mortal body, as well, was weary of the battle. It had lost its goal, and, like the rift itself, was ready to retire. Slowly, lazily, a tentacle of weak power extended out of the portal into the decimated forest, plucking the spirit of Azgalor from his body as he died, carrying him home to the Nether.

Then, as the tentacle and the spirit it bore retreated through the rift and vanished, the portal shuddered and at long last blinked closed. Its mad pulse stopped. The girders of stone which bound its form collapsed into piles of rubble as the gateway that had joined two worlds sighed peacefully and ceased to live.


	13. I'll Be Seeing You

The Twisting Nether seethed and writhed as it always had, but now it seemed the physical manifestation of Kil'jaeden's anger. The Legion had failed in its mission, the planet and more than half of its peoples had survived, and the bulk of the demon forces had been repulsed into the Nether, never to return. Kil'jaeden's singular purpose in his dealings with this wretched world had been thwarted… by a mere boy, the Lich King's puppet.

And here was the dying spirit of Azgalor, the demon Kil'jaeden himself had chosen to prevent all of the aforementioned failures from occurring.

"Azgalor! Wretched child!" the Eredar fumed, his red skin seeming to erupt in flames not unlike the swirling inferno of the Nether. "I gave you one task, and one task only – ensure that the Legion can still fight after Archimonde was defeated!" The great demon summoned a pillar of flame and sent it as a wave over the anguished form of the Pit Lord.

"Now I find you instrumental in the failure of that objective, and all that you can say for yourself is that you were tricked? By a _human_?!"

"Massster, pleasssse! I did all I could to ssstop the – gah!" The spirit wailed as a new wave of fire washed over it. Tears of char and ash fell down its face, burning holes in its skin.

"Yet," Kil'jaeden sighed, "I understand it would not be fair to hold you singularly to blame. There was after all, the boy, whom I failed to foresee… and I suppose it was also I who chose you for this task, which was obviously, in hindsight, quite beyond you…" The Pit Lord's burnt-out visage looked up foolishly, with hope. The Eredar caught his gaze and chuckled grimly.

"Yes, I suppose it must have been my fault then. I cannot hold you accountable then." Azgalor's spirit seemed overjoyed. The Eredar sneered at him.

"In that case, I won't keep torturing you… you've done all you could, after all… I think you've earned the right to die."

The spirit let loose one last shriek as bolts of green lightning enveloped it, and then was suddenly silent.

Arthas clapped.

The sound was strangely hostile in the silence of the desolated forest. He repeated the gesture several times, and then lowered his gloved hands to his sides as at last Illidan turned to look at him.

"Good show, my friend, good show. I had my money on you the whole time."

"What do you want?" Illidan snarled, his fist closing around the Orb of Kil'jaeden.

"Just my sword back, if you please." Arthas smiled warmly. Illidan remained cold.

"Take it, then," the elf said, his gaze returning to his prize. "Blasted weapon's no good anyway."

"It has its purposes!" Arthas disputed, his voice high and childish. Then he grinned again. "I won't argue with you, though. I'd hate to convince you of its use and have to fight you for it."

"Be gone, Arthas. Please." The elf collapsed in the dirt, the fatigue from his constant battles having finally drained him.

"I don't blame you for being irritable. You've had an awfully long day," the Death Knight answered, bending to retrieve Frostmourne where Illidan had discarded it on the ground. "Truly, though, I was rooting for you the whole time. Those demons didn't stand a chance… especially that one." He gestured to the charred form of Azgalor.

"Arthas, I asked you once to be gone. Please… go before I decide I have to fight you."

"Of course, friend. You need your privacy while you sleep it off."

"You are not my friend!" The elf exploded suddenly. A nearby tree caught fire, paralleling the emotion in Illidan's voice.

"My, my, you _have_ grown powerful," Arthas remarked. He paused, eyeing the burning tree. "It's just as well, of course. I don't plan to play my games with just anyone."

The night elf sighed in defeat, and placed his throbbing head in his hands.

"If you don't mind me saying so," Arthas added, "it's quite a nice pair of horns you've got there. They suit you."

"Be gone!" Illidan exploded again. The flames licking the tree doubled in intensity.

"Fine, fine," the Death Knight said, "I know when I'm not wanted. I'll be seeing you around, Illidan."

"Wait." Something Arthas had said had just struck the night elf. He struggled to place it. "You said… something about… not playing games… with just anyone?"

Arthas nodded, smiling. "Why, of course. I won't play my games with just anyone. It has to be you, Illidan, and I daresay you've almost made it to where you need to be when I start."

"But I thought… are your blasted games not over, Arthas?" The Death Knight smiled wider. "You made me kill the orc and those demons for you, you made sure the Legion got sent back to the Nether, and you even saved the world in the meantime, all though I don't wonder if that was by accident. Aren't your miserable games finished yet?"

"Illidan, Illidan, Illidan. I thought you'd come so far, but you need to pay more attention." The Death Knight dropped his idiotic grin suddenly, instantly serious. "Did you not see? All I did today was narrow the playing field, weeded out a few contenders, prepared the battleground. My goal was never to save the world, Illidan – it was to rule it." The was a momentary pause as Illidan considered this, an expression of shock – even fear – taking over his face where anger had governed it seconds before.

"You're mad, Arthas!" he said at last. The human smiled again, but it was not now his light, boyish grin; instead, his mouth twisted into a sinister sneer.

"Oh, good, at least you're not completely dense. Yes, Illidan, I'm completely mad. But not the sort you think. I'm the sort of mad that makes a man get back up and fight when it's obvious he's lost, the sort of mad that decides which species evolve and survive and which perish. I'm the sort of mad that it takes to seize this great big world and make it follow my vision – my aims! And I am mad enough to make it work!"

"So what game is it you've picked me for, Arthas? You want me to conquer the world for you?"

"No, Illidan. I want you to die. But not here, and not now. I want you stronger, much stronger… strong enough to push me to my limits and thereby make me that strong. When I eventually kill you, Illidan, I want it to be the single most important act of my life, my defining moment, and yours. It will be the exact moment when this world may as well give up and bow to me, because I will have destroyed the most powerful warrior in it other than myself, and that warrior will be you."

The two had approached one another as they'd spoken, and the undead human now stood a few scant inches from the horned night elf, staring upwards into the taller warrior's blindfolded visage.

"You're a monster," Illidan whispered. Arthas laughed.

"I think we've exhausted the topics for this conversation, my friend. I'll be seeing you." Whistling to himself, the Death Knight clutched the hilt of Frostmourne, turned and walked calmly away from the suddenly shivering Illidan.

The elf remained in clearing a long time, unable to shake the cold shudder he had felt at Arthas' words.

Later, much later, when Illidan had at last picked himself and left the clearing, the morning's new light came to shine upon the results of the previous twilight's carnage. The sun revealed to all the burnt patches of forest, the crumbled orc, human and night elf fortifications… and worst of all, the decimated Tree.

The survivors mourned those who had fallen, and then began the slow task of rebuilding what could be rebuilt. The ancient forest would take generations to regrow; the broken kingdoms of all three races' civilizations would require many years to repair. And nothing would bring back the lives taken by the Legion in its wake.

Most of the Scourge had retreated overnight to Northrend, and from there, many of its number would return to the broken Lordaeron. Though far from its original state, the wilder-lands of Kalimdor would become a fair home for any who wished to settle there.

In one forgotten clearing littered with bodies, one fallen shape stirred.

The cold touch of the Runeblade, Frostmourne, had not left Kokoro's body with his fall, nor with the coming of the warm, humid morning. It lived on in him, and so long as it did so, he would live on. He knew, somehow, that Kil'jaeden's plans had failed, that the legion was gone. Arthas, the villain, had succeeded where countless heroes had at the same time failed – he had preserved this world from the touch of one who would destroy it, for whatever reason.

Yet, though his master was beaten, the blademaster's quest remained in his mind, and in his heart. Coupled with the unnerving cold in his chest, the sense of his reluctant duty drove the orc to rise… to point his feet north, towards Northrend… towards the Icecrown glacier, where he would find his enemy, the Lich King, and with him Arthas…

Kokoro began to walk.


	14. Battles Past and Future

Wisping clouds hung like awestruck ghosts above the jagged majesty of Icecrown, ancient champions assembled from eons of history to salute the victorious Arthas as he approached the entryway into the glacial spire. He was their lord, their master, back from the hunt and awaiting their proud greetings.

Yet it was not enough. He longed to be master not of a few old clouds, forgotten at the top of the world, but of all creation, all existence. This world and its arrogant peoples would one day lick his boots as he trampled them into submission and worship.

 Taking a deep breath of this, his first victory, he pulled wide the great doors of the tower and stepped inside.

The air within was almost colder than that without, chilled not by the unceasing winds but by the sheer evil of the place. Arthas silently rejoiced in that evil as he climbed the spiral steps; it was his lifeblood, his power. It was him.

_My son_, came suddenly the voice of Ner'zhul, _you have returned_.

"Yes," Arthas spoke aloud. He had reached the top of the tall stairway. "Archimonde is dead, and the Legion banished back into the Nether. We are victorious."

_Yes, you have done well, little Arthas… both at my task, and at your own_.

"My own?" Arthas felt warmth suddenly behind his ears, unwelcome, untrusting warmth. "Why, my Lord, surely I have no purpose but that which you give me!"

_Was it I who told you to push Illidan over the edge? To 'weed out' the others? To begin setting the board for your great game?_

Arthas choked back a denial; it would be fruitless to lie to the Lich King, his empowerer. "No, master," he admitted. "Do my efforts displease you? I shall go and dispose of Illidan at once if you wish it."

_No. Though I did not sanction your actions, I approve. You are preparing for something, and though you sought to hide that from me, you needn't have bothered._

"I needn't have, master?"

_No, little Arthas. You see, I have been preparing for the same thing, and far longer than you._

Outside the glacier, Morte and Araj waited patiently. Their master could take his time; the battle was won, and there was now no rush. The Death Knight yawned, sliding down along the icy wall of the tower to sit in the snow. Araj hovered nearby, the jewels that glittered in his new headdress humming softly with arcane energy. Morte, as well, wore new, shining armor, a gift from the Lich King to reward their victory.

Morte felt the blade coming at him and instant before it would have sliced through his neck. He rolled to one side, dodging the falling sword and unsheathing his own blade, Icehowl, in one motion. He turned to face his attacked, but was knocked back off of his feet by what felt like a block of solid air. Shaking his head to clear his vision, the Death Knight gasped as he saw his opponent for the first time.

Kokoro was now embattled fiercely with Araj, but it was not the same Kokoro that had died in Felwood. The orc's fiery skin was now a dull gray, in some places tinted a dim red like blood, in others a pale blue, like ice. Blue and red flames danced around his empty left hand, while his right bore his familiar orcish blade.

Araj muttered some spell, causing the jewels in his headdress to glow brightly. The ground beneath the orc's feet shook slightly, and small pieces of rock and snow fell off of the mountainside toward him. Kokoro sneered, and raised his left hand. Muttering a phrase of his own, he extended his arm towards the lich. Tendrils of fire and ice shot from his palm, latching onto the skeletal mage and enveloping him in a cloud of wind and flames. Horrified, Morte watched as the frozen inferno devoured the lich, stripping him of his robes and then burning away layer upon layer of bone until nothing remained.

Then Kokoro turned to face the Death Knight.

Setting his jaw in defiance, Morte grasped Icehowl and launched himself up from the snowy ground, towards this mysterious orc who defied death itself, and commanded the flames of the Nether in tandem with Morte's own frozen powers.

"Master…" Arthas said uneasily, glancing over the edge of the staircase's top.

_Yes, my son?_

"Something is wrong here, my Lord. Very wrong…"

_So you've noticed at last. I knew you would be worthy._

"Master?" Arthas turned back to face the awesome sight of the Frozen Throne. He fought to ignore the sound he was sure he had heard – the closing of the great doors far below, and the subsequent piter-pat of footsteps up the frozen staircase.

_You seemed rather quick to be testing your competitors, so I thought it fit to present you with a test of my own._

"You are not satisfied with my abilities, Master? Was not this whole adventure a test of my will?"

_One last test, my son.__ Then I shall be satisfied._

The soft light which glowed from the Frozen Throne suddenly darkened, leaving Arthas with only the distant sunlight, so far above, by which to see. The footsteps had ceased or become silent, for he heard them no more. As his eyes began to adjust, he took a step towards the top of the staircase, his hand on his sword hilt.

The snow of the floor exploded as a shape surged through it. Leaning backwards to avoid striking the figure, Arthas saw that his assailant was of vaguely human shape – no, orc shape, he corrected himself. It was Kokoro, the orc that he had sensed dying at Illidan's hands.

"You –" he began, but the beast swung at him with a flaming, curved sword. Arthas took a large step back, unsheathing his own weapon. It was then that he saw the blade which hung from his opponent's second hand – Morte's Runeblade, Icehowl. "You've killed Morte," Arthas gasped. "And Araj," he realized.

The orc said nothing, instead electing to speak through his actions by assaulting the Death Knight with both swords. Overpowered, Arthas resorted to dodging rather than parrying, evading the creature's blows rather than attempting to block them. The fallen prince had always been gifted with a sword, but the orc outnumbered him with his weapons, and moved too quickly to disarm.

As he slipped, the red-hot orcish blade cutting into his arm, Arthas' vision blacked out for a moment.

He was not the warrior. He was the sword. Frostmourne. He saw the orc from the sword's point of view, hulking, pulsing with magic, dangerous.

Kokoro stood over the boy's fallen body, red blade held over him, poised to strike. He blinked. Slowly, as though he was little more than some golem moved my magic and not  a conscious creature that moved of will, he lowered the curved, red blade and lifted up Icehowl.

He saw the familiar blade aimed towards him, glowing cheerily, a kindred spirit, a brother. He saw his brother descending upon him as in slow motion… and he awoke.

The orc lowered the Runeblade swiftly on the Death Knight, but as he began the motion, Arthas suddenly recovered, lunging upwards with his own weapon.

Steel met flesh. Runes sang.

And Ner'zhul, the Lich King, felt one of his servants die.

"I say, master," Arthas whispered, out of breath, "was that entirely necessary?"

_Do not worry about Morte or Araj. They can easily be replaced._

"How long has he been your pawn, master?"

_When Illidan cut him with Frostmourne, my touch was forever embedded in him, too weak to take control of him outright, but too strong for him to resist completely._

"And then?"

_And then, three days ago, he set foot on my continent, my land, just after you yourself made landing. I claimed him the moment his flesh touched the cold surface of my domain._

"Oh. Good, then."

_What?_

"I was afraid he might have been yours all along… I might have felt guilty getting Illidan to kill him."

_I very much doubt that, my son._

Far away, to the south, a monster walked through the forests of Ashenvale. Kil'jaeden stood few meager yards in height, a tiny fraction of his true stature; with the various gates around the world closed by Arthas' forces in quick succession after Archimonde fell, it was only by an exhausting a direct passage that he could come. He was too drained from the journey to assume his full height, and besides, he had business to attend to here, business that would be severely hindered by his being seen. He remained, therefore, at his reduced size as he wandered the forest in search of Illidan.

"I see you, demon. I would not approach… I have slain many of your kind, and the time when I shall hunt you again draws near. Test not my powers, for I am no mortal any longer. I am more, and I shall destroy you if you tempt me."

Kil'jaeden turned to face the sound of the voice, barely stifling a laugh as he took in the image of the former night elf. Illidan was crouched on a low branch of a burnt oak, his dead eyes obscured, as before, with a stretch of dirtied violet cloth. His hands clutched no weapon. A pair of modest horns protruded from his scalp.

"Oh," he said, as the Deceiver turned to face him fully. "It is you… master."

"I have brought you a gift, my young champion," Kil'jaeden said. He knelt, and laid on the ground before the elf a pair of ancient blades, shimmering in the light of the setting sun. "Your old weapons, from the last War. They shall serve you better in my service."

The demon stood, and Illidan dropped from the tree to lift the pair from the ground. He put his fingers over the familiar handles, remembering a time when he was innocent… remembering battles past, and a future he had fought for.

Kil'jaeden moved his arms widely, and a reddish glow enveloped the warrior. When it subsided, a pair of horrid, demonic wings had sprouted fully from Illidan's back, and his horns had grown into huge, curved protrusions that bent towards the heavens.

"Now, go," the Deceiver whispered. "We, too, have games to play."

THE END


End file.
